This Feeble Heart
by SerNature
Summary: Catherine Amell is bitter and haunted; can an assassin sent to cut out her heart, prove to her she has one at all?
1. Freedom

_Hello! So I've finally broken down and decided to try and write a full-out fic rather than little one shots. Basically, I am a fairly light-hearted person; this fic will have silliness and jokes and innuendo that will make Alistair blush fifteen shades of red. It will be sexual a lot of the time due to the PC. That's just who she is. That being said, however, it will hit a particularly dark path for one chapter which I will be sure to post avid warnings about. _

_There will be smut (c'mon, it's Zevran) eventually and fluff as well, but Zev's not going to be around for a little while yet. When he does show up, the story will occasionally be told from his POV as well. Most of this story will take place during travel time and camp with musings about decisions. I'm going to avoid game dialogue where I can, sometimes warping it, as well. I'll be more inclined to use the banter straight from the game, though. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age nor its characters; that's all BioWare._

_I would like to take the opportunity to thank the following people from NSAS: lyss, spamhead, RShara, and especially Calla, along with Lucy and Arlana from the Alistair and Zev Fanclub._

_You've all supported me enough to want to do this. HUGS FOR YOU!_

_p.s. Extra hugs for Calla/Hermia for putting up with me bouncing ideas off her._

_p.p.s. Italicized bits on their lonesome = inner thoughts.  
_

* * *

Catherine Amell looked from side to side before discreetly sliding out from a storage room on the second level of the Tower. Daintily, she wiped the corners of her mouth, shifting her robes by rolling her shoulders and shimmying about to correct them. A man – _what was his name? David? Damon?_ - quickly sneaked out behind her, brushing off his clothing as well.

They looked at each other for a moment before smirking; the man gave her an appreciative pat on the behind and went on his way, not sparing her a second glance. Catherine's self-satisfied grin only widened as she made her way back to the apprentice's quarters.

He was a particularly talented man; not the best, certainly, nor the most giving, but she had to take what she could get. Quite easily, she could get whatever man or woman she wanted. Catherine was beautiful, but more importantly, she was _exotic_.

She surmised her parents were Rivaini, or at least, they descended from them. Her skin was a dull sepia; face accented with high cheekbones, full lips, pointed chin, and a defined jawline. Catherine was a tiny thing, though; shorter than many elves, even. Men seemed to like that about her – well, that and her curves. With eyes of chocolate and thick, wavy ebony hair that she kept tied in a loose bun, she painted a lovely picture.

Having beauty was a gift in the prison she called home; she could get away with things no one else could, get to places off limits. Templars didn't notice that you went overboard with your magics if they were staring at your chest when you 'forgot' to button it all the way.

Other apprentices were jealous of her; she was Irving's pet and easily one of the most talented apprentices in the Tower, perhaps even of the mages. Catherine reveled in it. For good or for ill, she was who she was; a powerful, beautiful bitch that deserved far better than being locked away in some stupidly tall Tower that was probably chosen just so the Chantry could overcompensate.

Only good thing about the Chantry – or more specifically, the Templars – was the fact that she was surrounded by sexually repressed young men. That equaled easily flustered, and _that_ equaled entertainment.

It took all of Catherine's willpower to straighten her face as she came up to the apprentice's dorms – more importantly, to Cullen. He was always stuck on 'whelp guarding' after dinner, and she took advantage of that almost every day.

"H-Hello, Catherine." The templar stammered in his usual way of greeting as she closed in on him. "I-it's nice t-to see you. D-done with d-dinner already?"

"Oh, you could say that." Catherine replied innocently, before raking her eyes up and down his armor-clad form. "I could definitely do with something more... _filling_, though."

His Adam's apple bobbed in a hard swallow. Innocent Chantry boy or no; you'd have to be deaf or stupid not to hear the innuendo. She was capable of subtle flirting when it was needed, but Cullen required the more obvious approach.

Cullen cleared his throat and attempted to smile through an impressive blush; sweat already beading at his forehead. "I-I'm sorry. That you ha-haven't gotten enough." he said, voice breaking spectacularly. "To eat. I m-mean."

Catherine put on her best 'sweet girl' smile. "I don't suppose you have anything to _sate_ my rather... _vociferous _appetite?"

_Oh, dear; I've never seen that shade of purple before._

The flustered Templar just made several strangled noises before clenching his eyes shut and murmuring one of the canticles from the Chant under his breath.

Satisfied with a job well done, Catherine laughed sweetly and patted him on the forearm, promising to 'see him tomorrow' as she entered the dorm. Most apprentices were still out eating, so she was happily alone for the next half an hour. It was purposeful; solitude in the Tower was a precious, rare and _fragile_ thing that she clung onto every second, not unlike someone savoring what they knew could be their last meal.

The young mage swerved her way through the bunks effortlessly, quickly reaching hers with a happy sigh. Ducking her head to avoid the upper bunk, Catherine laid herself down on the thin, prickly mattress and let a small smile creep onto her lips.

It was this time she let herself be a child; a silly adolescent girl who didn't have magic powers that brought Sin unto the world, or Templars eager to run her through. To that end, she lifted up the scratchy sheets that covered her bunk and dug through the straw, wincing and cursing until finally letting out a small whoop when her fingers grasped her prize.

Her prize being a small book – barely as large as her hand. It was bound in cracked, dull leather with a rusty but still usable lock, paper corners haphazardly poked out from various spaces and it smelled of dust and of _age_. The poor, abused bundle of yellowed paper and leather settled in her lap and limply fell open to the forty-seventh page. Catherine's favorite; she had looked at this illustration at least once every day since Irving had given it to her when she was barely six years old – twelve years ago.

Fingers traced the image in a tender caress; an obvious ritual, should anyone had witnessed it. The drawing was beautiful; lush green foothills covered in tall stalks of grass that would tickle your skin, wildflowers dotted the landscape like jewels and the sun was setting making the sky a wondrous mix of orange, goldenrod, and blood red.

She'd never leave the Tower; never see something like that picture with her own eyes. It made her moments of solitude bitter and acidic, but she never once missed the chance to scan over the illustration of her hopes and dreams.

Perhaps she was just a masochist, but every time she went to set the damnable, taunting _thing_ on fire the spell just wouldn't come. Irving had told her that Greagoir had demanded that such books be locked away lest the mages get _ideas_ about getting free; after all, it's hard to long for freedom when you have no idea what it looks like, but he had given that book to her, despite it all. Other, similar readings had been locked away as ordered. Catherine had no idea _why_. The First Enchanter knew her quite well; he had to know that it would just irritate her, and irritable mages caused trouble.

Sighing, she shook her head in an attempt to clear her mind. Idly she flipped through the other drawings - of mountains, a village, meadows, cities, and one of a harbor. Her mind wandered gleefully, desperately trying to conjure the feeling of wind and the smell of _life_ with nothing feed her fantasies.

It was useless, she knew. The pungent smell of unwashed robes mixed unpleasantly with heavily scented oils that the women tended to favor, with an added layer of dry parchment for _flavor, _of course.

The low murmurs of apprentices brought her back to reality; she slid her torturous window to the world back under her bed, sparing a punch for her lumpy pillow before she righted herself back onto her mattress, glaring up at the top bunk as if it were the cause of all her woes.

"Didn't see you at dinner, Cat." the familiar, nasal voice of Jowan stated, pulling her firmly from her reverie. "You really shouldn't skip meals like that, you know. You're all bony as it is."

Catherine snorted, waving her hand dismissively as he sat on the edge of her bed. "_You're_ one to talk."

Her dear friend just grinned and poked her in the ribs. "So who was he?"

She rolled her eyes and turned over to her side, propping her head up on a hand. "Good question. Damon, I think? Something like that." she said, shrugging.

Jowan's brow furrowed. "You ever think about, you know, _finding_ someone." he said wistfully. "I mean... _the one_. You could settle down with some nice bloke..."

Catherine cocked her head as best she could in her position. "What, you mean _love_?" she scoffed. "Doesn't happen for people like us, Jowan."

He nodded dejectedly. "I know. That doesn't mean we don't _think_ about it. Or want it."

"All right, spill it. Who're you all _wistful_ about all the sudden?" she teased. "And please _warn_ me before you go off on one of your romantic tirades, please, I may become ill!" Catherine clutched her stomach for effect and dramatically plopped onto her back again.

Jowan let out a long-suffering sigh, but his mouth was twitching. "You're _terrible_, Cat." She grinned and motioned for him to go on. "I... met this girl, is all. I like her. A lot." he murmured, hands wringing.

"Okay... so, what? You need help knowing what goes where? 'Cause I can--"

"Maker! Catherine!" he said exasperatedly, voice breaking with embarrassment. "That's _not_ what I meant. Honestly, don't you think about anything else?"

"Yes, yes; forgive me for trying to be a good friend and make sure you're _well-educated_" she replied, kicking him in his bony rump; he grunted and smacked the offending appendage. "So. Met a girl. Like her. When do I get to approve of this lady?"

Jowan looked at her then, eyes soft and lips curved into a small, warm smile. "I knew you _cared_, Cat."

She chuckled and kicked him again. "Yes, of course I do. Now go to sleep, I wouldn't want you to collapse during your classes tomorrow" she replied in her best 'old biddy' voice.

He laughed and patted her leg before climbing up to his bunk with a final 'Good night, Cat'. The hushed whispers and giggles died down soon after. Lamps were doused, and almost immediately there was just the occasional sound of someone shifting on their sheets.

Catherine just continued to stare up at the top of her bunk, mind wandering. She was _happy_ for Jowan. For all the teasing he puts up with, he deserved to find love; one of the few who truly deserved it, whatever it was.

She knew she should be jealous that her friend had found such a supposedly glorious and pure emotion – all women are supposed to covet that inexplicable emotion, weren't they? - but she found she was indifferent. No point in longing for what she would never experience.

With a yawn, she curled into herself, not bothering to wriggle herself under the scratchy covers. As her eyelids fluttered close and the Fade called to her, she thought of green hills and gem stone flowers and freedom.


	2. A Chance

_Thank you for your reviews and favorites. I don't own Dragon Age, etc. etc._

_

* * *

_Catherine spared a final glance for the Circle Tower as she reached the top of the small hill that lead away from her sheltered life. It looked so _powerful_ and ominous, looming in the middle of the dark, chilling waters of Lake Calenhad, surrounded by fog and bathed in streams of silver moonlight. Wholly unwelcoming and without a doubt completely _terrifying_, especially for the children being dragged there.

"We must move quickly; the darkspawn are already massing in the south." Duncan's warm, solid voice pulled her attention back to the road ahead.

She nodded and the Grey Warden immediately set a harsh pace; Catherine needed to take two steps for every one of his long-legged strides. Duncan kept his attention firmly on the path laid before them, his mouth and eyes creased with heavy tension. Catherine was much the opposite; as hard as she tried, she couldn't keep herself from taking in the scenery with a child-like wonder. The sound of birds, the colors of the leaves and the bark and _Maker_ even the sodding _dirt_ was interesting in its own way.

Duncan had said it was 'summer' currently, in one of the multitude conversations they had during their hike; she had heard of seasons before, of course, but seeing it first hand was incredible. Her savior seemed to be a wall of infinite patience and understanding; Catherine bothered him with questions like '_What's that tree called?'_ and '_Why does it __**smell**__ so much out here?'_ and, her favorite: '_Why don't more people wear __**robes**__, Duncan?'. _The man just smiled and answered: '_Those are pine trees, most of Ferelden is covered with them due to the colder climate.' 'We just passed a farm, Catherine.' _and of course_ 'Not everyone appreciates the fashion statement, I suppose.'_

Eventually she fell into a thoughtful silence, mostly for Duncan's sake, allowing the rest of the day to pass uneventfully. They traveled through first night and well into the next before he decided it was time to make camp.

It was incredibly odd for her to feel so inept; she'd always been _the best_ when it came to, well, _anything_ at the Tower and now all the sudden she felt like some bumbling fool who was more than a little slow, staring at the material to construct a lean-to as if it was waiting for the opportune moment to attack. Her feet and legs were _aching_ in places she didn't knew she had and she was one bug bite away from throwing a tantrum complete with foot stomping and petulant tears.

Her eyes followed Duncan intently as he went about digging a pit for the campfire and gathering twigs. When he finally reached for his flint and tinder, Catherine decided she could finally be useful and muttered a few arcane words; in an instant there was a small, well-controlled fire.

Duncan chuckled, eyes gleaming in the orange glow. "Irving said you had remarkable discipline; I'm glad to see he wasn't blinded by his care for you."

"I may have been his pet but I damn well earned the respect I got from him." she snapped.

He threw a few more sticks into the flames before turning to work on the lean-to. "Quite the temper, though." he said matter-of-factly. "That will help you against the darkspawn, at least."

Catherine "hmph"ed and crossed her arms under her breasts, eyes narrowing. "Not that I don't appreciate you _rescuing_ me from that phallus-shaped stone prison," Duncan coughed to cover a bark of laughter, "- nice to see you Wardens have a sense of humor, by the way – but what, exactly do you expect me to do against the darkspawn? You _do_ realize I've never killed anyone... any_thing_ before, yes?"

The man was quiet for a good while, twisting the poles of the lean-to into the hard ground. Catherine fidgeted, sitting down on a nearby log to keep herself from pacing; he _had_ to be testing her, she just knew it. The dull noise of a foot tapping on loose soil was the only audible sound as Duncan secured the ties of the doeskin, pulling the lean-to taunt.

After he had smoothed out a bedroll under the slanting cloth, he turned back toward her, mouth barely quirking up; it was a sad excuse for a smirk, but it _was_ one.

"Interesting," was all he said.

Catherine's teeth ground roughly on one another as she glared daggers at her rescuer-turned-tormenter. She thought she had escaped from old men who _enjoyed_ making her life miserable.

"Maker has a sick sense of humor." she muttered angrily under her breath, wrapping her arms about her midsection.

"I believe you're a bit too young to fully understand the Maker's humor." Duncan replied.

Her lips curved into a wicked grin. "Yeah? Well _you're_ a bit too old to have such a nice ass. Didn't stop you."

She heard sputtering laughter from across the fire; she mentally patted herself on the back. "Irving did warn me about that sharp tongue of yours." he said.

"Okay, you don't honestly expect me not to do something with 'tongue', right?" Catherine teased as her grin widened. "I doubt he gave you the full run-down of what my tongue is capable of."

The Warden cleared his throat and she heard more than saw him rise and shuffle about somewhere near his creation.

"As tempting as that may be, Catherine," he said as he walked over to her, "I have something for you, from the First Enchanter, actually."

Her brow knitted together. "Oh?" He handed her a tome and went back to sit by the small campfire.

She recognized the book – the _grimoire_; it had been in Irving's office when she had spoken to him of Jowan's plans. _Maker_, they were probably the same books her friend learned from!

"Do-" her voice caught. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Do you know what this is?"

"I have my suspicions, yes, but since I can't read ancient Tevinter..." Catherine heard his armor squeak in a shrug. "_Technically_ I have no idea what it contains."

Absently, her fingers ran along the leather spine of the grimoire; the door to Blood Magic laying in her lap.

"So," Catherine began, a bit hesitant, "I take it I passed your test, then?" Her palm ran across the undecorated cover and patted it tenderly. "You trust me with this; would _encourage_ me to go down this path?"

Duncan was quiet for a moment before answering. "We must do whatever it takes to combat this Blight. Blood magic is dangerous in the wrong hands. Do I believe yours to be such hands?" he paused thoughtfully, "No. You _are_ powerful and even arrogant but I do not believe you to be _cruel_."

Her grip on the grimoire tightened. "I'm not cruel? You _were_ _there_ for what happened to Jowan. I--"

"You did not turn him in out of cruelty." he said firmly, cutting her off. "You made a decision, and a difficult one at that. That is what the Wardens must be capable of if we are to defeat the darkspawn." There was a long sigh and another gap of silence. "Friendships rarely outlast the brutality of pragmatism. You did what was needed; there is no shame in that."

Catherine swallowed thickly and nodded to herself. Taking a deep breath, she slipped the grimoire into the pack Duncan had provided her, cinching it closed again afterwords.

"Get some rest." Duncan murmured. "I will keep watch tonight; I need you at your best and the pace will be much the same, come morning."

She replied to him with a groan and promptly collapsed onto her bedroll, and fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

* * *

It took them two days to get Ostagar in their sights and by mid-day on the third, they had arrived.

The crumbling architecture of the old watch post probably should have been impressive, but Catherine just found being surrounded by more stone and _towers_ to be irritating beyond measure.

As she and Duncan made their way towards what she assumed would be the main camp, they were cut off by a small army of guards and a rather handsome man at the forefront in shining, golden armor.

"Your Majesty." Duncan bowed, but sounded about as aggravated as she felt. "I was not expecting--"

"A royal greeting?" the (apparent) King interrupted with a wide smile. "I was beginning to worry you'd miss all the fun!"

Duncan forced a smile. "Not if I could help it, your Majesty."

The King scoffed, waving a suitably regal but dismissive hand. "How many times have I told you? It's _Cailan._ _Cai-lan_." he drew his name out slowly as if he were teaching it to a particularly slow child. "No need to be so blasted formal all the time, Duncan."

It was the Warden's turn to grin. "Of course, your Majesty."

Cailan rolled his eyes before locking wrists with him in way of greeting. Catherine was watching the exchange with no small amount of amusement when the King seemed to finally realize she was there.

"And who do we have here, then?" Cailan queried, eyes shamelessly raking over her form. "I had heard that you were bringing a new recruit with you, my friend," he turned to look at Duncan, then back to her, "surely this _glorious_ creature is not she?"

Duncan had begun to introduce her when she decided to grab the reigns snap the horse into a full-on gallop.

"I am Catherine, _your Majesty_." she wrapped her tongue around his title sensually. "A mage." Catherine held out her hand and smiled brilliantly, while bestowing his body with a similar appraisal.

He took her hand and brought it to his lips, breathing a kiss upon her knuckles but lingering _far_ longer than he should have. Duncan cleared his throat and both parties withdrew with knowing glances.

Cailan cocked his head. "The Wardens could certainly use the firepower. I take it you'll be supplying us with spells when the battle starts?"

"Of course." she said in a servile tone. "I am sure I could supply you with any manner of invocations that your Majesty might," her tongue darted out to wet her lips, "_desire._"

His face turned a lovely shade of pink at that, and she bowed as Cailan attempted to regain his composure.

"I-ah. I'm sorry to cut this short, but I must go. Loghain is eager to bore me with his strategies." Cailan explained, annoyance evident.

"Your uncle sends his greetings," Duncan quickly added, "and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week."

The King scoffed. "Eamon just wants in on the glory! We've won three battles against the monsters so far, and tomorrow will be no different."

Catherine's face scrunched lightly in confusion. "I didn't realize things were going so well."

"I'm not even sure this is even a Blight!" Cailan said sharply and obviously disappointed.

The mage just shook her head and firmly ignored the rest of the conversation, crossing her arms over her chest and putting on her best 'this is _so_ stupid' face; she had no desire to listen to a man willing to act as if _war_ is some giddy walk through a park. The King mentioned something about a search party and left – though not without a quick wink in her direction, one she did not return. Duncan was clearly _not_ amused in the slightest.

"We have enough animosity towards us without you openly flirting with the _married_ King." he stated in a measured voice.

He motioned for her to walk with him and she obliged, feeling suitably chastised for once in her life; she kept her head down and clasped her hands in front of her in an attempt to look at least somewhat penitent.

"The King doesn't seem to take the darkspawn very seriously." she pointed out.

The statement, oddly enough, seemed to calm Duncan a bit. "True." The man stopped and grasped her firmly by the shoulders.

"Listen to me carefully: while Cailan does _not_ completely understand the threat we are faced with, he _is_ our strongest ally in Ferelden." His eyes narrowed. "Do _not_ jeopardize that with your _antics_. Am I understood?"

Catherine's eyes went wide and she hastily nodded; he nodded in return and patted her shoulders before releasing them.

"Good." he said approvingly. "Also, you should know... the junior Warden in charge of looking after all the recruits is – or _was_ – a templar. He's by no means a _zealot_ but..."

"But he's been brain washed by the Chantry his entire life and will see me thoroughly maimed if I practice blood magic around him." she finished for him.

"That's the gist if it, yes."

"Sodding _wonderful_" she seethed. "I mean _really_? I get out of the Tower – something no one believes possible – and immediately get saddled with a _templar_?"

Duncan's mouth twisted into a mocking smile. "Adapt." he said it lightly, but it felt like a command.

"Alistair should be around the ruins someplace." Duncan continued his walking, gesturing slightly. "Take some time to rest, but I ask that you find him and the two other recruits soon; the Joining must take place tonight."

The Warden gave her a farewell bow that she returned and she watched him stride across the bridge that lead into the central part of Ostagar.

_Adapt._

The word kept playing over and over in her head; that was exactly what she had to do if she wanted to survive. The Circle Tower was static. This outside world was not.

_A Grey Warden. You are a Grey Warden, Catherine. You're going to kill darkspawn and no one is going to tell you to **take it easy**. Don't muck this up, girl. Be strong._

Catherine squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. Her eyes locked on the billowing smoke from the campsite, watching it as it rose and dissipated into the increasingly stormy-looking sky.

Determination shone in her chocolate eyes and she nodded to herself, confidently following Duncan's path further into Ostagar. She wouldn't throw this chance away.


	3. Adaptation to the Familiar

_Thank you for your favorites and reviews; it means a lot!_

_Much love to the darling Hermia for letting me bounce ideas off her and keeping my spirits up!_

_

* * *

_The Korcari Wilds were _cold_. Not just in temperature, either; the essence of the swampy land seemed to chill right down to your _soul. _Branches and brambles clawed at her, clinging and dragging her down to the soggy ground in an attempt to claim another victim. A haze seemed to float eerily around the entire marsh; whirling wispy clouds hugged the various Tevinter ruins like a desperate lover. Worst of all, there was _no noise_.

During her travel to Ostagar, she reveled in the sounds of nature: the calls of birds, the rustling of wind through leaves, even the sound of farmer's sowing the land. The Wilds were _disturbingly_ quiet – even her breathing and footsteps seemed to be muted it this thrice-damned, Maker forsaken forest.

Catherine hated it. It was _terrifying_ and _freezing_ and _dirty – so blasted dirty -_ and the company she had _was not_ helping matters in the slightest.

She would never _admit_ it, of course, but she had been extremely apprehensive about meeting her new 'brother'. It wasn't just that she was interested in pursuing blood magic – that was a good portion of it, though; it was the fact he was a Grey Warden _on top_ of being a templar. Duncan had told her that Wardens only recruit the best; Catherine wasn't afraid of any run-of-the-mill mage hunter, but this man could prove beyond her and she didn't like that _one bit._

Honestly, she could have bopped Duncan upside the head with her staff for making her worry so. _Alistair_, the almost-but-not-quite templar, was _nothing_ to be afraid of. All she needed to 'adapt' to was the man's _constant_ smiling and off-key whistling; by the Maker she had never been so tempted to shock someone in her entire life.

That being said, the man did have a sense of humor, which was more than she could say of any templar she had met before – even if it fell flat more times than not. On top of that, he was a _fine_ male specimen. Very fine.

The other two gentlemen along for their _lovely_ excursion out into the Wilds weren't as good-looking; Daveth, at least, _was_ attractive and - more importantly – he was willing to _flirt_ with her. He was all lithe muscle and obvious leering and Catherine _adored _finally finding someone who wasn't immune to her talents(Duncan), off-limits (Cailan), or so sodding ugly she couldn't find the willpower to look at him for more than a few moments (Ser Jory).

Ser Jory was a coward, and a hideous one at that. She could forgive the coward part; truth be told, she was terrified herself, but _still_ at least she had to the good graces to put on a front – and look _ravishing_ while doing so.

On top of the spooky forest, the odd company, and the ever-rising desire to smack Alistair, Catherine had killed for the first time.

Wolves, at least, she was able to handle relatively well; as a mage she was able to stand back from the fighting and thus was not covered in blood and fur and entrails which made her _very happy_ to say the least. It was easy to rationalize: wolves were _just animals_, after all.

When they finally encountered darkspawn, she lost her lunch. Or, she would have, if she had anything in her stomach. They were... _disgusting_. More than that; Catherine could _feel_ the wrongness emanating from their gray flesh; the feeling made her entire body almost shut down with the compulsion to heave. She had been practically useless during the first encounter and the weakness seemed to writhe through her body; demanding that she shiver cower like some frightened child.

It took her several minutes to collect herself – though she was happy to see that Jory and Daveth didn't seem to fair any better, even Alistair seemed rattled – and eventually the mage had decided to really _look_ at the corpses, if only to attempt to prepare herself for further battles.

The eyes were... horrifying. Pools of ivory; so milky and smooth they seemed to _beg_ you to be lost in their dead depths. Lips were non-existent, leaving a constant, cruel mockery of a smile; their teeth were near-obsidian in color, sharp and serrated. Worst of all was, despite all the monstrous changes, they looked _human_, or humanoid in the case of Genlocks.

Catherine could _see_ what the darkspawn once were and it was a blood-curdling realization.

As they continued their trek, she adapted; Alistair always ran in first, with Jory in tow, while Daveth and she stuck to the shadows; him with his bow, she with her spells. They weren't perfect, of course; Catherine had singed them all on multiple occasions, Jory often left himself open for attack when he swung left, and Daveth had the tendency to be a little wild with his shots, but they _were_ improving.

"We'll stop here for a moment; I don't sense any darkspawn nearby." Alistair said as they came across what looked to be an abandoned campsite.

The templar fished about in his pack, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, until he managed to catch a slab of cheese and a large hunk of undoubtedly stale bread, muttering something about "food of Kings."

He cut a piece of both foods and passed it out mechanically as everyone took their seats on some conveniently placed logs. Daveth, of course, took the opportunity to sit by her; too close to be considered 'just friendly' and too far to be truly offensive – he was good.

"So, sweetling," the rogue said through large bites of his dinner, "how'd a pretty girl like you wind up stuck with the Wardens?" Daveth swallowed and gave her a toothy grin. "Though I'd guess it's far better for you to be out where lucky men such as myself can have a good looksy."

"Daveth! Don't be so _rude_." Jory interjected. Catherine stifled a sigh.

"I ain't bein' _rude_, ser knight; a woman _likes_ to know she's good-lookin'!" Daveth locked eyes with her and gave her a nudge. "Ain't that right?"

Catherine's lips curved into a playful half-smile. "Oh, quite right, indeed." she answered, nudging him back. "After all, I've been locked away my entire life; you don't get too many compliments when courting consists of tapping someone on the shoulder and whispering a room number."

Alistair coughed and pounded his chest in an attempt to not choke on the final bits of his poor excuse for dinner and Jory looked positively scandalized.

Her partner in crime, however, just grinned as he finished his meal. "Huh. No rooms 'round here." he commented, eyes never leaving her own. "So would a shoulder tap do or have you got new rules now, pretty lady?" He waggled his eyebrows and there was continued sputtering from over where the _prudes_ sat.

"Hmm" Catherine licked her lips to clear off the remnants of food. "I don't know. It's so _different_ out here. People are so..." She made a vague hand gesture towards the knight and the templar, before arching a wry brow towards Daveth. "What do _you_ think I should..._do_?"

The heated way she uttered that last word was not lost on the cut purse and Catherine could barely contain the whoop pleading with her throat to be released when he let his gaze wander up and down her body.

"Oh-ho!" he cheered. "Yer a saucy one, ain't ya, sweetheart?" Daveth's tongue darted out. "Oh, yeah. I can think of a few things. Maybe we could--"

"Okay! That's _quite_ enough, thank you!" Alistair interrupted, seemingly unaware of the daggers being glared at him. "What you're doing is liable to scare off the Archdemon, and just imagine how boring things would be!"

He gestured toward a large ruin off in the distance. "Let's get a move on, shall we?"

Alistair and Jory marched off, sticks firmly planted up their behinds, as she and Daveth brought up the rear.

"Maker, they just can't take a sodding joke, can they?" Catherine asked, more to herself than anything else.

The rogue by her side snorted. "Them? C'mon, sweetling, you gotta know the type." He shook his head. "All morals and _religion_ and actin' like their shit don't stink. Like to pretend they don't think what us _normal folk_ say."

The mage let out a heavy sigh. "I suppose. It's a shame, really." Her mouth twitched. "Although I think it'll provide entertainment, if nothing else."

Daveth bumped his shoulder into hers and pouted. "Aw, you just wanted to get them two hot and bothered?" he asked, voice pitched higher like a disappointed child.

She rocked back against him and let out a husky chuckle, picking up speed to get a bit ahead of him. "You'll have to think of something for me to _do_ and find out, won'tcha, _Daveth._" Catherine purred, sauntering up closer to the front of their pack.

A loud whistle of appreciation and admiration echoed through the misty air; her hips rolled just a bit more in response.

As the odd band of Wardens approached the vine-covered, dilapidated tower, Catherine couldn't help but smile. Being a Warden didn't seem so bad; she had at least _one_ person she could happily goof off with, and Duncan's had a penchant for putting her in her place – not something she usually liked, but she could never find a way to argue with the impossible man.

She could do this; be a Warden; a killer; a protector. She could _be_ like Duncan; pragmatic and cool but not _cruel_, not _malicious._

Catherine felt, for the first time, she _was_ a Grey Warden. Not just a recruit; not just some lucky mage who managed to get the right person's attention.

She had been a Grey Warden from the start, and it was _damn time_ the title finally caught up with her.


	4. Friends New and Old

_I do not own Dragon Age, etc. Arella is not mine, either; she belongs to Hermia S, who is **awesome** and has been supporting me through this the entire way._

_I'm not entirely happy with the flow of this chapter, but it had to be done. Redcliffe is next!_

_**BANNHAMMER, I'M COMING FOR YOU, BABY!**_

_**

* * *

**Adapt._

It kept repeating in her mind like the Chant; it honestly felt like she was praying to Duncan with his own command. Catherine wasn't accustom to loss, after all, mages just tended to 'disappear'. Death was never _actualized_ in the Tower; there were rumors and speculation and _obvious_ signs, but no confirmation, and that made all the difference.

It was _that_ realization that caused her to appreciate Duncan all the more; _adapt_ hadn't been an _order_. It was _mercy; _advice of a man who knew all too well the agony of loss – of duty. Perhaps the thought was cold, but who could blame him? Her eyes were drawn to Alistair as he only just seemed to manage to put one foot in front of the other, gaze not leaving the dirt path leading to Lothering. His usually _unbearably_ chipper demeanor and wide smile had been replaced with a pinched brow and an unbelievably depressing frown. The ex-templar had become so introverted she scarcely believed it was the same man who had blurted out that she was, in fact, a _woman_ within the first minute of meeting him.

Was it better to end up like that? To care so much that it felt like your world was falling apart without that _one person_? Duncan had told her to adapt; Alistair was doing anything but. Maybe it was odd, considering she'd known her 'rescuer' for less than a week, but she was mourning him, as well. It was a dull ache between her ribs; she didn't care for it much, but for whatever reason it seems to give her _focus – _a constant reminder of who she needed to emulate and why.

Catherine's gaze shifted to the 'Witch of the Wilds' that had been... _volunteered_ to join the two Wardens. The young mage knew a bitch when she saw one, and Morrigan reeked of _ice queen_. Power rolled off her in waves and the woman walked with a dignity that made Catherine jealous. Her eyes were an unsettling yellow that seemed to pierce through anything they looked at.

She may not have _liked_ the witch much, but she certainly _respected_ her.

The mabari – Damon, she named him, in honor of the last man she had _been_ with - help cure plodded happily along side Alistair, occasionally bumping into him in an attempt to get a pet or a 'good boy' or some of the cheese that the Warden kept in his pocket. Catherine was more than a little apprehensive about the beast of a dog, but she didn't mind having him along - everything she possessed already smelled of wet fur, anyway.

They had walked in silence for most of the trek out of the swamp, more out of necessity than a real desire for quiet, and now that they had finally made it into what looked to be more civilized country, Morrigan had sped up, gracefully, until she was walking side-by-side with her, while Alistair continued to bring up the rear.

"So," the witch began, looking down at Catherine from the corner of her eye, "I've noticed that you're quite the talented mage. I assume you must be a _rarity_ amongst your fellow prisoners; 'tis the only reason I can think of as to _why _you all remain as such_."_

Catherine snorted. "I _am_ a rarity. The only person that could defeat me, without question, was my mentor, the First Enchanter." she paused. "Oh, and there was a _delightful_ little elf, as well. She was no where near as good as me when it came to offense but the dear was _quite_ the little healer." Her hand flew up dismissively and scoffed. "Not that I've ever bothered with such things."

Morrigan's plush lips twisted into a rather icy grin. "Oh, _my_, but you are full of surprises, aren't you?" Clucking her tongue, her voice took on a rather condescending tone. "You _are_ aware how foolish it is to disregard a school a magic entirely? It is idiotic and irresponsible to ignore _healing_ simply because you cannot _master_ it."

"Oh? Is _that_ what I'm doing?" Catherine replied sarcastically. "Well, thank goodness I have you here to set me straight, Morrigan. Maker knows I should just learn how to turn into a _giant spider." _She cleared her throat and took on a lilt akin to her fellow mage. "'Tis the only path to true power, after all."

To her surprise, Morrigan actually let out a small titter – quickly stifled though it was. "I doubt you could manage something so complex when you can't even mend a small scratch."

Her eyebrow rose in challenge. "I could waste my time attempting to master something that I _know_ I have no affinity for," Catherine brought a finger up to stall whatever scathing retort Morrigan had planned, " _or_ I can focus on what I _am _good at. One never _truly_ masters magic; there is _always_ more power to be found and I intend to do just that." Confidant she had made her point, her arm fell back to her side and she jerked her chin up proudly, straightening her posture.

There was a long period of thoughtful silence; she could see Morrigan's brow furrow in contemplation out of the corner of her eye. Finally, she chuckled. It was short and rough, obviously rarely used, but it _was_ a laugh.

"Very interesting. Perhaps this won't be as ghastly as I expected." she murmured, almost too quiet for Catherine to hear.

Just as she was about to respond, there was an indelicate snort from behind them.

"_Maker;_ are you two _bonding?_" Alistair asked while kicking the ground as he walked.

She and Morrigan looked at each other, eyes running up and down as if they were appraising the other's worth. They shared a not-so-friendly smile and turned slightly so that they could see the sulking templar out of the corner of their eyes.

"Yes." The mages said in unison.

Alistair's head shot up and his eyes nearly popped out of his skull. He visibly shuddered and eyed them warily. "Great. _Sodding wonderful_. As if I don't have _enough_ to deal with." he muttered, hand drifting to scratch Damon behind the ear. "You'll keep me safe, won't you boy?"

The mabari shook his head vigorously and chuffed, nipping at Alistair's hand.

"Ow!" he whined, rubbing the injured body part. "Andraste preserve me! You're all against me!"

Catherine said nothing, but her lips curved into a sly grin as she nudged Morrigan in the ribs, eyes sparkling with mirth. Morrigan's head snapped in her direction, glaring murderously, but it didn't last long; the stern look on her face melted away and gradually, the corners of her mouth twitched up and she gave her a small shove with her hip in response.

She found herself asking the witch a series of questions, mostly about the fauna and flora of the area, occasionally delving into the shapeshifting magics she seemed so fond of. If Morrigan found it aggravating, she didn't let on; perhaps she enjoyed having someone of a likened mind to speak to – who wasn't a nutty old woman, anyway.

Alistair continued to brood, though he did perk up slightly as they neared the outlying farms of Lothering; Damon finally convinced him to through a stick for him as they walked, and the man even laughed a few times.

Perhaps things weren't as horrid as they seemed.

* * *

Catherine could have slapped herself.

_See what happens when you start thinking in cliches, Cat?_

Lothering was a _ghost town_, even with most of its population intact.. Fear clung to the town thickly; you could hear sobbing children and the frantic whispering of townsfolk from all sides. Refuse piled on the streets, adding to the already putrid smell of sweat, tears, and pure _terror._

Beggars and refugees clawed frantically through the rotten garbage like insects. Merchants bled the poor and confused dry. Templars did nothing to drive off the highwaymen preying on those fleeing from further south, and to top it all off: Grey Wardens were considered _traitors to the crown_.

People were trying to kill her; whether due to orders, out of desperation, or just stupidity – well, Catherine honestly couldn't tell the difference any longer. She had done her best to help in what little ways she could: a few health poultices here, some silver there. It earned her Morrigan's scorn, and seemed to open Alistair up more, but to be perfectly honest, she just didn't care about them.

Nor did she _really_ care about these refugees; most of them would die, and many more people would join them in the coming months, but she was there and she could, at least, make their passing somewhat easier, maybe even get them started to Denerim before the horde made its pass.

The stubborn town was full to bursting, thus, once they had restocked, Catherine decided that they would camp just outside Lothering – more to just get away from the _smell_ than some altruistic impulse. Not to mention she preferred _not_ to be in a closed space with the two new members of their merry band.

Sten, the qunari, was... otherworldly. For being a cold-blooded murderer of an unarmed family – children and all – he had remarkably soulful but ultimately unsettling violet eyes. Stoic wasn't a strong enough word to describe the giant, but it would have to do; his muscles were corded and _thick_ and Catherine was honestly surprised every time he managed his way through a door frame. If nothing else, he'd certainly scare off any bandits who thought their camp would be an easy mark.

The red-headed lay sister, Leliana, was on the other side of the spectrum. She chatted _incessantly _about _everything_ and to _everyone_. The woman was gorgeous with her steely blue eyes and flame-orange hair, petal soft lips and curvaceous figure, and her singing voice had a haunting quality to it that seemed to float about the campsite with a natural ease. Downside was, Leliana _had a vision from the Maker _that told to 'fight the good fight'.

Catherine hadn't been thrilled at the thought of bringing _either_ of the crazies, but she was no fool. Leliana had proven herself tenfold against Loghain's men, and Sten was a qunari – the latter might seem ridiculous but she was fairly certain his people didn't conquer the northern islands with their ridiculous good-looks and charming disposition.

Things could be worse, she supposed. She wasn't really sure _how_ at this point, but she had no doubt she'd learn quite quickly. Better to be a pleasantly surprised pessimist than a soul-broken optimist.

Both Sten and Leliana seemed to understand how camping out worked. Morrigan set up the main campfire and got dinner started before erecting her own lean-to further away. Alistair and Damon went to hunt, or, barring the need, they gathered firewood. Sten cleaned their weapons and armor, Leliana did the laundry and Catherine set up the tents.

After all their prospective chores were done, they all grabbed a bowl of 'whatever stew' and went to their places; Sten sat away from the campfire, though not as far as Morrigan, Damon laid by Catherine's side, and Leliana and Alistair sat with her.

"He is such a handsome dog, Cat." the lay sister said, gesturing toward the beast gnawing on a bone. She gasped suddenly and let out a poorly hidden giggle. "Dog, Cat. That's so cute!" A bright smile appeared on her face before she took a bite of her dinner. "What's his name?"

The mage smiled at her mabari fondly, he seemed to sense her eyes and attempted to crane his neck so that he could see his mistress without turning. After several attempts, he let out a doggy sigh and went back to chewing on his bone.

"Damon." she replied, patting him on the haunches.

"Oh! Such a strong, masculine name!" Leliana cooed, cocking her head slightly. "Is there a story behind it?"

Alistair quirked an eyebrow at her as well, obviously curious.

Catherine grinned. "It's the name of the last man I was with before I was recruited to the Wardens."

Leliana's eyes widened. "He left an impression, then, yes? Your lover?" she pouted, hands wringing. "Oh, dear, you weren't forced to leave your love behind, were you?"

"Damon? Not at all." she shrugged. "He's the most recent and he liked to use his tongue quite a bit. I thought it fitting."

Alistair's nose crinkled in disgust. "Oh _ew._ I'm trying to _eat_ here!"

Leliana giggled. "Sounds like Cat's friend was, as well, no?"

"What in the Maker's name are you _on about?"_ Alistair asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

Before Catherine could respond, Leliana dashed over to the templar's side, hitching up her Chantry robes to avoid tripping. She plopped down, rather unladylike, and began murmuring to him while making _very_ animated, very _lewd_ gestures.

It took roughly ten seconds for Alistair to turn _beet red_ and run off in the direction of the nearby pond; Leliana turned her attention back towards Catherine, not bothering to hide the triumphant grin on her face.

The lay sister crawled her way over to the mage's unoccupied side. "So you had no one special in your Tower, Cat?" she asked, tilting her head curiously.

Catherine shrugged, but met her eyes. "I didn't have any _lovers_, no." A sigh whooshed out of her as she fidgeted with her robes. "I had one friend. Arella. She's an Elven mage; smart kid, if a bit on the prudish side at times." She caught her lower lip between her teeth and chewed. "There was Jowan, too, but... we're not friends any longer."

Whatever Leliana's faults, she knew when a subject was off limits. With the grace of a noble, she drew the conversation away from the Tower and to simple things: flowers, music, food and eventually her 'vision from the Maker.'

Eventually, the sister went on watch, leaving Catherine alone to her thoughts. She laid back, resting her head on Damon's side, looking up into the clear, starry night; a sight that never ceased to amaze her. The stars twinkled back and forth as if they were playing notes in a never-ending song; Catherine found her mind wandering back to the Circle Tower.

She thought of Rell never seeing the sky, of Jowan fleeing for his life, and of Cullen's not-so-subtle glances towards her elven friend.

Freedom cost her much, but she couldn't help but hope beyond hope, that they would someday taste it too.


	5. Maker's Gift to Women

_I lied about Redcliffe. Next chapter, okay? Okay. I know, but I wanted more campfire banter and I'm still sort of figuring out how I'm going to handle Redcliffe and Teagan and such._

_Also, hey look! Some half-naked Alistair, which I blame aimo for fully._

_This was really just for fun, and I wanted to start the Al/Leli thing a bit: that's right, he's not going to be a romantic rival JUST BECAUSE. I just don't see Alistair falling for Cat at all. But there will be Alistair DRAMAZ soon, what with Redcliffe.  
_

_

* * *

_

Catherine knew she shouldn't be watching this. It was an invasion of privacy – something that was quite rare on the open road – but _Maker_ when you give a man a body like _that_... well she's only a woman, after all, and an extremely horny one, at that.

Alistair was in the small pond by their campsite with the water up to his waist, whistling to himself as he washed. Rivulets ran down the planes of his rippling back, flowing down to the defined dip just above his undoubtedly chiseled behind. His tanned skinned was gleaming _just so_ in the sunlight, making him look like some kind of bronze _god_. Catherine had no idea how he didn't _feel_ her staring at him, but she wasn't about to complain – especially when he turned toward the shore.

Her breath caught; the man was _gorgeous _- it was _sinful__. _Droplets caught in the ridges of his pectorals and abs, sliding down to the tempting V shaped creases at his narrow hips. Catherine bit her lip and let out a small, needy noise when Alistair's entire _body_ flexed as a sudden chill wind gusted; it was all she could do to keep herself from _jumping him_ right there. The oblivious templar started to move toward her, the water receding from his toned body at an entirely _too languid pace_; Catherine's hand wandered to her inner thigh in anticipation.

* * *

"Psst!"

"Hargmm? Stoppit." Catherine waved a sleepy hand, desperately clinging to the fleeing images of her _apparent_ dream. "'e's 'lmost outta th' water."

"Maker's breath" the annoying voice exasperated before she felt a poke in her ribs. "Wake _up _Cat!"

The mage groaned and opened one eyelid: It was Alistair. His eyes were daring about the quiet camp as if he were afraid the archdemon laying in wait, hands were wringing and he was obviously chewing on the inside of his cheek.

She made a small whining sound of concession and rolled herself onto her back, sitting up and shaking her head free of some of the remaining cobwebs clinging to her mind.

"Alistair," she growled, "this had better be _extremely_ important, or I'm going to find what my dream left out."

The templar grinned. "Good dream, huh? Sorry." he said, not sorry at all.

"S'alright, I guess." Catherine smirked, leaning back into her hands. "I'll just have to watch you bathe next time I get the chance."

"Wh_-what?_" he sputtered. She stifled a laugh. "Yo-you had a dream about...? _Maker_ that's not something you typically _admit to_, Cat."

"Yes, well, I'm not _typically_ as sexually frustrated as a Chantry sister, but there it is."

The man just stared at her wide-eyed, like she'd suggested stopping by the Black City for a spot of tea.

A sigh whooshed out of him and he tittered nervously, looking pointedly at the suddenly-interesting ground. "Well, at least this can't get _more_ embarrassing." he grumbled.

Catherine chuckled. "Don't tempt me, please; you really haven't seen _half_ of what I'm capable of." she teased, but patted him on the shoulder good-naturedly "Now, tell Auntie Cat what the problem is."

Alistair winced, sighing again before raking a hand through his hair. "Okay. I... um. I need some advice. For..." he trailed off and made a vague hand gesture, but his eyes drifted to Leliana's tent.

She caught her lower lip in her teeth and clapped her hands together, letting out a little squeal of glee; Alistair gave her a 'shush!', sitting himself a little closer.

"Sorry." she said with the same sincerity he had early. "You... haven't made a move, then?"

The templar shook his head, his foot was twitching slightly while he picked at bits of grass. "N-no. I ha-haven't." he stammered. "What am I supposed to _say?_ She's... she's _gorgeous_ and I'm all... _me_."

Catherine sighed and patted him on the shoulder. "Alistair, you're _quite_ handsome," he arched an eyebrow at that, searching her face for any tell that she was lying, "and, most women swoon for that 'bumbling sweetheart' thing you got going."

Alistair let out a bark of laughter, rolling his eyes with a quirk of the mouth. "'Bumbling sweetheart'? _Really?" _he mocked companionably. "I guess there's worse things." Alistair looked her in the eye, strange look on his face. "Um. Not that I think I'm the Maker's gift to women or anything..." Catherine snorted and he cleared his throat. "Right. I mean... I can come to you? For-for advice? You aren't... 'one of those women' I take it."

The mage let a small, genuinely warm smile grace her lips. He was worried about her _feelings_. "No, I'm not." she said simply. "I'm not the type of woman to fall for anyone, you needn't worry." Catherine grinned wickedly, clutching her heart for dramatic flair. "Alas, I shall only see your studly body in my dreams, nothing more. Woe!"

The tips of Alistair's ears turned pink and he muttered something about her being a '_bad lady' _and he ran off so quickly that she couldn't help but be reminded of Cullen; she wondered idly if perhaps that remarkable speed was something Templars were blessed with; a way out of potentially _risque _encounters.

A chuckle escaped her lips as she let herself plop back fully onto her bedroll, curling herself around Damon, nuzzling the fur of his shoulder. Damon huffed and cuddled back, tail thumping lazily when she gave him a pat.

With a long yawn and a measured stretch, Catherine's eyes closed once again, wicked little thoughts dancing in her mind in hopes to encourage another dream.

She may want him to be with the red-head, but that didn't mean she didn't like _looking_ in the meantime.


	6. Desperate Times

_Right, uh. Sorry. Redcliffe is going to be broken into three parts. Maybe two if Connor doesn't take too long; we'll see._

_

* * *

_

The two-day, three-night trek to Redcliffe was actually rather pleasant, all things considered.

Catherine's once soft, prim feet were now callousing more than blistering; she mourned the loss of them if only for her vanity's sake, truthfully she was glad her boots weren't irritating her so much any longer. Muscles she didn't know she had began to awaken and protest to the sudden change in routine and her back revolted against sleeping on the ground – the Tower beds were never comfortable, but at least they didn't have bloody _rocks_ in them, and she had a near constant headache from using her magic so often and so intensely. Still, the young mage found herself enjoying the freedom, as uncomfortable as it was.

She spent most of her time in the company of Morrigan, and most of that time was spent in a companionable silence; they spoke through tilts of the head, a small gesture of a hand, and an occasional smirk more than words. Intermittently, they'd speak a few words about a plant or a spell, or discuss possibilities of trying to create a more powerful lyrium poultice, but it all came back to a blissful, comfortable quiet.

Alistair and Leliana were somewhat similar – _now,_ anyway_ -_ walking too closely together, hands occasionally brushing; the templar had bestowed the sister with a rose earlier that day. Catherine was fairly sure people in _Orlais_ heard the squeal; Leliana cooed and rambled erratically: "_This was the rose from Lothering's chantry! Oh it was so special to me, Alistair, how did you know?" "You think of me like a delicate flower? I-I... that's so __**sweet**__!" _After all her gushing and all his stammering there was a distinct 'mwah' sound of an over-exaggerated kiss, followed by more stammering and a ridiculously girlish giggle.

Surprisingly, she had managed to hear Sten to string a few words together, rather than him simply grunting or saying 'no' to everything she asked. Granted, he was speaking to the dog and continued to pointedly ignore Catherine, but with a man like Sten she figured it was best to take what little you can get.

Damon weaved around between everyone, nudging hands for attention and chasing rabbits. He liked to sniff at Morrigan's herb pouch, then bound away like a happy child before the witch could shoo him, wagging his stubby little tail so hard he entire body shook; it never failed to make Alistair and Leliana titter in the background. There were times Damon would walk next to the monolithic qunari; Catherine would have sworn the dog walked with his head raised a bit higher, and walked a little sturdier.

During the nights, she spent her spare time going over the grimoire Irving had given her. She scoured over the ancient notes, eating up the 'forbidden' knowledge like it was the only thing keeping her alive; it was thrilling to have such _power_ in the palms of her hands. It didn't take her long to access the first step: using the caster's own blood to power their spells. Such a thing had to be used tactically, of course, but at the very least she could avoid becoming some lyrium-addict. The biggest issue was Alistair. Sure, he never took _vows_ but he certainly was a little Chantry drone, just as Leliana was, and Sten distrusted her for being a woman _and _a mage.

So, to be safe, she practiced her new art while she was alone on watch; Catherine learned rather quickly that – whether using someone else's blood or not – blood magic was _quite_ messy. Rivulets of crimson flowed from her eyes and ears, dripping from her finger tips and a coppery tang filled her mouth and nostrils. It was unpleasant, but the benefits were undeniable. She'd find a way to broach the topic with the more... _rigid_ members of her party, sometime.

* * *

Redcliffe was _fantastic._ A giant barrel of sodding laughs.

Not only was the only man that could _truly_ help them against Loghain's regency, it was quite possible he was dead. Not only was Alistair a bumbling fool when they reached the outskirts, he was the bumbling _heir to the throne._

And on top of all of _that_: the bleeding town was _under attack_ by some 'evil'; walking corpses, supposedly. Bann Teagan explained the situation desperately, with tired hand gestures and a broken voice of a man who had seen far too much death. The man had all but begged her to assist in holding the line; she could see the pros and cons of both, after all they had much to do and little time to do it in, but in the end, she decided to help the town, or at least put in a token effort. It ought to at least make them _look_ good to the Arl, or the Bann should the Arl be lost to them.

Catherine had left Alistair and Sten with militia to see if the two warriors could shape-up the gaggle of unkempt, terrified men; she, Morrigan, Damon and Leliana went about the town, doing everything they could to give the town a better chance. The lay sister ending up using her considerable charm to get the Revered Mother to publicly bless the militia, and passed out small Andrastian symbols amongst the knights who were holding the first line of defense by the access road into Redcliffe.

Meanwhile, the two magi and their mabari made it a point to ensure the militia had the proper armor and weapons by subtly threatening the drunken blacksmith who had decided the best way to save his daughter was to let the entire village be destroyed.

As if that wasn't enough, there had been several able bodied men who up and refused to fight; it was despicable, even to Catherine, who had no loyalty to her home whatsoever. Wanting to make a point – and acknowledging she, perhaps, was not as intimidating as she really wanted to be – the Warden sent Sten to bodily drag roughly seven men out from the homes, handing them their armor and weapons without even a 'hello'.

Sometimes, she _really_ liked Sten.

The battle at nightfall went as could be expected when facing an untiring horde of walking corpses with a small force of undisciplined, frightened, and exhausted men.

It was a non-stop stream of the disgusting ghouls; Catherine nearly lost all composure at the _smell_ of them, let alone the sight. Putrid, rotting flesh hung loosely off sickly bones, bits of skin dripping onto the ground as they unholy army descended on the near-hapless town.

Catherine held the ramp leading to the castle with Alistair and Damon, while Leliana, Morrigan and Sten protected the chantry, defending against what monsters rose from Lake Calenhad's unforgiving waters.

The assault lasted for hours; everyone was covered in a thick, congealing ichor that seemed to pour from the walking corpses, clinging to armor and clothes and skin. She was filthy and tired, and the waves of monsters just would not stop. All her attempts to conserve her mana failed as a group of ten corpses made a final push, aiming to overwhelm Alistair and Ser Perth; anyone nearby was dead or dying or preoccupied and all Catherine could do was lash out with the one thing she had been holding back.

Blood slid down her face as long streams of red running from her eyes; she felt the sticky fluid pool at the collar of her robe as she unleashed every spell she could manage on the undead, casting so wildly she burned her forehead, scorching her hair. The desperate act had worked, thankfully, but Alistair had not missed the implications; she was just thankful he seemed to realize that now was _not_ the time to bring it up.

The sun began to rise soon after; most of the militia survived, but almost all of them were critically wounded with deep slashes from the dead's claws. They were all exhausted, even Sten, but they had no time to waste, every second bringing them closer to another attack, thus they agreed with Bann Teagan when he mentioned that he had a plan to get in to see what was plaguing the already suffering village.

She would have said no if she had known _that harpy_ was going to show up.

_That harpy_ being the Arlessa of Redcliffe, Isolde(who was apparently descended from a parrot or some other form of squawking bird). The older woman spewed all sorts of nonsense about not knowing what was going on, how scared she was, and how 'Tee-gahn' needed to come with her back to the castle. Alone.

Catherine wasn't sure if she was going to laugh, cry, or scream bloody murder – she was so tired it was sure to be a combination of all three that most certainly cause her to lose any sense of respect she had with her comrades.

Teagan, thankfully, was just as dubious about Isolde's story, but – being the brave, noble, handsome man he was – he decided to follow her, regardless, hoping to distract whatever was causing Redcliffe's undead infestation, with the contingency that Catherine and her party would take the 'secret' route into the estate, that evidently ran through their dungeons and into the courtyard..

Apparently, the Maker was _really_ resentful about the whole blood mage thing; seeing Jowan again was not on her list of 'favorite things' at _all_.The distraught mage went on a _tirade_ about how she betrayed him, blaming her for his choices, calling her all sorts of names that she had heard thousands of time both to her face and behind her back – they never had an impact before. He eventually went on to explain that he poisoned the Arl under orders, under the pretense that he would be allowed back into the Circle, or perhaps even freed; he was always too naive for his own good.

She left him there in the dingy, cold cell, pointedly ignoring the looks she was getting, ranging from revulsion to curiosity to pity. Catherine wanted none of it.

Clamoring through the castle courtyard and into the interior was a blur; there were at least fifty of the disgusting creatures strewn about the once-peaceful castle. Blood and gore were spattered across expensive tapestries and elegantly cut stone walls. The air was thick with the cloyingly sweet, pungent smell of _death_, made heavier with the obvious fear and misery.

Everyone was on edge, fingered their weapons, muscles tense and eyes darting at every shadow, every crevice, waiting for the next nightmare to appear before their eyes. As they came closer to the main chamber, a high pitched – but ultimately _wrong – giggle_ was heard, followed by claps and whoops.

Catherine felt her brow furrow, a sharp pain following from the burn she had given herself earlier. Turning to Alistair, she raised a questioning eyebrow; he looked at her for a moment, before shrugging and dropping her gaze.

He would be no help.


	7. Necessary

_Woo. OKAY. That took forever. Dragon Age belongs to BioWare. The prayer is from the Canticle of Trials, nipped from the book The Calling._

_

* * *

_The impressive oaken doors opened with a resounding creak, echoing throughout the hall, with only the sound of undoubtedly maniacal laughter to cut through. Catherine was more than a little disturbed to see the once dignified Bann rolling about on the floor doing a number of – admittedly, quite impressive – acrobatic tricks while waving his hands, complete with waggling fingers.

If it weren't for the child atop the dais in the receiving chamber, she likely would have been laughing.

The child – Connor, she presumed – was obviously possessed. Not that she had ever _seen_ possession first hand, but she had enough '_your sin could kill us all'_ speeches to recognize the signs. Violet smudges decorated the boy's eyes indicating his _body_ hadn't received the proper rest, eyes were bloodshot, irises flashing a bright amethyst and his skin was pallid, bluish veins clearly visible even from a distance.

Connor sneered at their approach. "Hmph. _These_ are what caused so much trouble in _my_ village, woman?" he demanded rather than asked the cowering Arlessa.

"I-I... ye-yes, Connor." Isolde stammered, eyes refusing to leave her son.

"_You!_" the demon-child screeched with finger pointed at Catherine. "You _ruined my fun_ and saved this _stupid village_!" His arms flailed exasperatedly, face scrunching into a petulant scowl. "Do you have _any_ idea how long it took me to make that army? There's not even enough fools in this town to make _half_ of that, now!"

Catherine bit back a 'well, who's fault is _that?'_ as the boy went on.

"Do you at least have a good _reason_ for being such a stick in the mud?"

The woman clenched her fists in an attempt to control her temper. "I am _here_ to see your Arl." she spat. "It's not _my fault_ your disgusting army of _dead fishermen_ didn't hold me back."

"Oh, would you look at that!" Connor cackled. "Who knew some of you mortals have some _backbone._ One can hardly tell with this _rabble_." A genuinely mournful sigh left the demon-child's lips, punctuated by a shrug.

Alistair stepped up by Cat's side, muscles obviously tense even through his armor. "Where's the Arl?" he growled, surprisingly menacing. "Is he even still alive, demon?"

She felt both of her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline at Alistair's sudden assertiveness, but didn't reprimand him; her chocolate orbs locked with the demon's unnaturally glowing eyes expectantly.

A cruel smirk twisted the boy's once-sweet face. "Oh, how disappointing. You're here to see that old man?" Connor sighed and patted Bann Teagan on the head fondly. "After I put on a show for you and allowed you into _my home_, you'd rather see _him!_" The boy pouted.

Isolde suddenly interjected. "Connor. Connor, _please_!" The woman's voice cracked with fear. "D-don't hurt anyone else!"

Connor staggered back, clutching his forehead; Isolde was kneeling by his side in moments.

"Connor? Son?"

"M-Mother?" the boy asked, voice trembling. "I-I'm sorry mother! It promise--"

Isolde grasped onto her son's shoulders, shaking him as hysterical sobs wracked her body. "_CONNOR!_ D-don't _do this!"_ she begged, tears streaming down her face.

The boy's head snapped up with a growl, shoving the distraught woman onto her back. "Quit your _incessant whining_, woman! You're _boring _me!" Unnatural eyes scanned over the entire room. "You're _all_ boring me! _Uncle,_" Connor jerked his head toward Catherine, "take care of them."

Chaos erupted as the demon fled the scene, running for the stairs.

"Sten! Damon! Alistair!" Catherine barked. "Take out the guards – kill them if you have to! Morrigan, paralyze the Bann!"

Orders were carried out quickly; the fight was laughably fast. They might have been fine guards for protecting a relatively peaceful area of Ferelden, but against two extraordinarily well-trained men, a similar Mabari, and two powerful sorceresses... well, it was a walk in a park compared to what else Redcliffe had to offer.

Luckily, Morrigan's paralysis kept Teagan from getting too injured – but jostled enough to seem to have come to his senses. Alistair dispelled the nobleman, catching him as he lurched forward. Shaking his head, Teagan grasped onto Alistair's arm in way of thanks, and righted himself, staring worriedly at her.

He took stock of the room, face blanching as he noted the dead guards. "I... I should thank you for seeing fit to keep me alive." he said. "Where did Connor go?"

Isolde timidly came to his side, feet barely lifting off the ground in a combination of despair and weariness. Her hands clasped around the nobleman's arm tightly in an attempt to just _feel_; Teagan stiffened, but softened soon after, looking at the ragged woman with pity flickering in his tired eyes.

"H-he went upstairs." the Arlessa said, turning her head to look at Catherine. "Perhaps to keep an eye on Eamon? I do not know."

She shuddered and bit her lip, tears threatening to spill once again; the bann put a comforting hand over hers and patted, nodding in gentle encouragement.

"Do you know what... what can be done? I-I could not bear it to lose either of them. I-it won't come to that, will it?" she asked timidly.

Catherine pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a sigh. "Your son is an abomination. A demon has possessed him; it sounds like an incarnation of desire... they're some of the more powerful spirits in the Fade." she paused, letting her hand drop. "We'll need to kill him, then."

Bann Teagan nodded grimly, as if he had already assumed that would be necessary. Isolde didn't take the news as well.

"_NO!_" she cried. "_He's my __**son**__... _there must..." she gasped, eyes going wide. "Th-the mage responsible for _all of this_. H-he's still in the dungeon... Perhaps he--"

"He's still alive, yes." Catherine cut in agitatedly. "But Jowan's a fool; a blood mage and a poor one at that." Her brow furrowed as she paused thoughtfully, finger tapping her chin.

"Well. I doubt he could make things _worse._" Catherine chuckled to herself. "Teagan, could you go get the idiot?" He nodded, leaving a hand-wringing Isolde chewing her lip.

She turned to Alistair, letting her hand grip his forearm; he stiffened in response, glaring hatefully.

"Look, I know you hate me right now," she said resignedly, "maybe you always will. I need to know, at least for now, when I ask you to be ready to kill the maleficar, you'll only be looking at _Jowan_ to run through."

The templar's eyes went wide. "I... Yes. Alright." he agreed, brow pinched indicating it was about the last thing he wanted to do. "For now. And I still have my eye on you, _maleficar." _Alistair spat out the word like it was poison.

Catherine rolled her eyes. "Great. Go tell your girlfriend to find a spot to line up a shot should Jowan get out of hand." Alistair was so angry, he didn't even jump to the bait. She sighed and released his arm.

He made a growling noise and stalked over to Leliana in long, angry strides, all while unsheathing his sword. The woman worriedly cocked her head at him, murmuring things Catherine couldn't hear, but Alistair seemed to deflate slightly, and nod with a small smile; Leliana kissed his cheek and headed to a corner to string her bow in preparation.

Morrigan, Sten, and Damon all spread out in the hall: the qunari stood a respectable distance from Isolde, but close enough to be a threat should she attempt to stop them from doing what was needed, the witch took a position by the main entry door, and Damon waited with hackles raised towards the center of the room.

The bann returned, roughly shoving a bound Jowan into the entry chamber. The mage stumbled and muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath as he was dragged unceremoniously in front of the two women.

"Hello, Cat." the disheveled man said lightly. "Good to see you remembered me."

Needless to say, Catherine was not amused.

"Connor is possessed." she said bluntly. He paled and bit his lip. "We're going to kill him; Isolde seems to think you might be able to help."

Jowan's teeth sank deeper into his lip, concern evident. "I... _might_ know of a way. But it-it's not a much better solution. Someone dies, either way." he warned.

The dark-skinned mage nodded, chin in hand, tapping her foot. The corners of her mouth turned down as she looked at Teagan and Isolde straight on.

"He means blood magic." she stated, ignoring the combined gasp. "We could get into the Fade and defeat the demon that has a hold on your boy, but someone would need to die in order to get the amount of power necessary."

"Hey! Hold on, there!" Alistair interjected sharply, rapidly closing space, sword in hand. "W-we _can't_ just sacrifice one life for another!" His sword pointed dangerously close to her belly; she stifled the urge to cringe and stood firm. "Th-the Circle has lyrium, and mages! We could go to them for help; why do this?"

Damon let out a harsh bark and ran between his mistress and the emotional templar, lips curled up in a dog-sneer; Alistair looked confused for a moment before noticing he was armed. Instead of sheathing his weapon, he simply gave Catherine more space, eying her warily. The mabari stood his ground, tense muscles ready to snap into attack mode at any moment, but his growling subsided.

Leliana appeared by her templar's side, face creased with concern. "Would you have her leave the town helpless for even a few days?" she asked softly.

Alistair glared at the sister, huffing in frustration. "She doesn't need to take all of us. There are horses--"

The mage snorted. "Horses. I haven't rode a day in my life – the Tower is rather lacking in the husbandry department – and I am _not_ leaving leaving this town in _any_ of your hands. We will do the ritual, or kill the boy. End of discussion." she declared in a tone that would brook no argument.

For a moment, her fellow Warden looked as if he would attack; his entire body shook with unspent rage and adrenaline, grip on his sword tightened to the point of his gauntlets grinding audibly against the pommel. Luckily, Leliana managed to placate him with a reassuring hand on the shoulder; Alistair scoffed and waved his unarmed hand angrily, muttering a 'fine'.

She caught Morrigan's gaze for a moment, and they shared a knowing eye roll.

Her attention was brought back to their predicament when Teagan cleared his throat to speak. "So, with this ritual... someone would need to be sacrificed, and in turn Connor would live? Free of the demon?"

Before Jowan could speak, Isolde cut in. "I will do it." she said simply.

"Isolde! Eamon would not--" the bann began, only to be cut off by the Arlessa.

"I will do it." she repeated. "He's just a boy; he only wanted to help his father. Don't punish him for that." Isolde's breath hitched and she blinked back tears. "Th-this is all my fault. I just wanted to... to keep him with me. Surely you understand? I could not bear the thought of having m-my son locked away in a _prison!"_

Catherine swallowed the lump in her throat. She looked directly into the Arlessa's eyes when she spoke. "You're willing to die, then?"

She nodded. "Yes. Even if this was not my doing..." Hot tears once again trailed down her face, licking her wrinkles and clinging to her chapped lips. "He is my son." Isolde declared, as if that explained everything.

The Warden looked to Teagan for some bit of guidance; his brow furrowed, but he nodded subtly soon after.

"Very well." Catherine ignored the cry of anger and the soothing sounds that followed. "Jowan. Do what you need." She twisted her torso to look at a near-boiling Alistair. "I will be the one to enter the Fade. Can I trust you only to kill me _if necessary?_"

"I will do my _duty._" he sneered.

"If you so much as _scratch_ that woman without necessity, fool, I will _boil_ your entrails and feed them to the mongrel." Morrigan snapped with a far more pull on her lips.

"_**Enough!**_" Catherine boomed in a voice she had no idea she had. The guilty parties stiffened and looked suitably chastised.

Turning to Jowan, she gave him a curt nod and unbound his hands quietly; there would be no more words between them, never again. She helped him with the arcane symbols; various Tevinter runes to decorate the floor and the sacrifice equally.

There were no words spoken as Isolde entered the magic circle; the proud woman held her head high. As Jowan began uttering the words of power, Catherine heard a muttered prayer:

_I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade;  
For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light.  
And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost._

And then, she screamed.

It wasn't just a scream, even; it was a keening screech that reverberated off the walls and back again only to express the torment of a woman who's blood was being _boiled_ inside of her body. Jowan's voice grew louder, ancient Tevinter words spilling from his cracked lips with a subtle reverence; blood began to pour from the woman's eyes, mouth, and nose, bits of gore lodged in the rivers of red.

Then there was a sickening _snap_ and Catherine vaguely remembered falling to the ground.

* * *

She awoke victorious, though that did not mean much.

Catherine wearily rubbed her eyes, roughly abusing the sensitive skin until puffy.

"Oh, thank the Maker!" A lilting Orlesian voice said. Leliana. "We feared you would not wake!"

Catherine began to rise, but was quickly pushed back by a pair of delicate hands "No! I sent Alistair to check on Connor the moment you stirred... I assumed - well I know you two are not getting along." she murmured. "You were successful, yes?"

The mage attempted to speak, but only a wheezing puff of air escaped; Maker, she was tired. She settled with a nod. Leliana smiled weakly and gave her a water skin, which she greedily accepted.

"He will come around." Catherine nearly choked on her water. "He will. I-I know you are _maleficar_ but I know you are only doing what you think is necessary. You are a good--"

"Don' talk 'bout wha' you don' know." she snapped, albeit weakly and half-delirious with sleep deprivation.

Hungrily, she slurped down the water, drinking so quickly that Leliana eventually took it away; Catherine coughed huskily, but managed a petulant whine.

The sister chuckled and shook her head. "You need sleep; we all do." she said gently, gesturing at the bed even through Catherine was already in it. "Sleep, Cat. I will tell the rest that you need to recuperate. We will deal with the fallout tomorrow, no?"

The exhausted mage just murmured something about 'sending the dog in' and promptly fell asleep with no need for any persuasion.


	8. Accursed One

_What Catherine says at the end is from the Canticle of Transfigurations._

_P.S.: Zevran is next! __*dances*_

_

* * *

_Catherine awoke – or rather was prodded awake by a sharp, merciless witch-finger to the ribs – roughly four hours later; far too soon for her liking - for everyone else as well, she imagined. Leliana and Morrigan assisted her in walking to the Arl's chambers; she was still incredibly weak from her excursion in the Fade, and she surmised that using blood magic was more akin to bludgeoning down a door, rather than knocking polity with lyrium. Her steps were more shuffles and she felt as if miners had taken residence in her skull, pounding away inconsiderately as she attempted to focus on the task at hand.

She shook off the two women – though not without a mumbled 'thanks' – before opening the elegantly cut door, refusing to look weak in front of the bann.

The conversation was brief and to the point: Eamon had been kept alive by the demon, thus it was now unclear if he would even survive another night. According to Teagan, they had employed a number of mages to attempt to neutralize the illness(now known to be poison) to no avail; Isolde had sent a number of Redcliffe's knights out across Ferelden in an attempt to find information on the Urn of Sacred Ashes – the supposed resting place of Andraste, and a rumored cure-all.

Not a particularly pious woman, Catherine found herself mentally scoffing at the very idea of such a thing existing – she had no doubt there _was_ and Andraste, but she was fairly certain she was just an extremely powerful, lyrium-addled mage. That being said, putting in a token effort to find the Urn would turn to their advantage; if Teagan believed that Catherine and her merry band had done everything in their power to cure Eamon, then – despite the inevitable failure – he would no doubt do everything he could to support the Wardens and their 'rebellion'.

So, she agreed to head to Denerim and seek out a 'Brother Genetivi', a well-known scholar (she had read _In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar_ a dozen times) who supposedly had found clues as to where the Urn's final resting place truly was.

Teagan had offered to put them up for a time, saying that the heroes of Redcliffe certainly deserved a night or two in an actual bed, but Catherine had refused. As tempting as it was, it was tactically wiser to go straight to Denerim, if only as a show that they were "serious" about saving the Arl.

They left late in the evening after barbarically raiding the castle's larder for their dinner and food supplies – anything to make Morrigan's patented "Whatever Stew" more palatable. Their pace was slow, hampered by fatigued and healing injuries.

Catherine was using what little reserves she had left just to put one foot in front of the other, leaning on her staff heavily for support, with Damon hovering nearby. Her normally lustrous, jet-black hair was unbound, densely matted with blood, sweat and normal tangles. The soft skin of her eyelids were dark circles, puffed up dramatically from near-constant rubbing in an attempt to keep them open.

She was the worst of the lot: Sten didn't receive many injuries, nor did her mabari, while Alistair's shield arm had been sorely wrenched and a rib cracked and Leliana had a twisted ankle. Morrigan was, as usual, immaculate and seemed only slightly less alert than usual.

As such, they marched on for a few hours until the moon was perched high in the sky, illuminating a small field with enough room for their lean-toes and tents. Unfortunately, there was no water source nearby, so everyone had to do with being dirty and smelly for awhile longer.

Everyone went about their chores, erecting the campsite with mechanical movements and little speech, too exhausted to want to deal with even light conversation.

This, however, did not seem to deter Alistair, at all. Once the camp was secure and Sten was set up on watch, the templar advanced on her, all righteous fury and accusations. He was at least a head taller than she was, and while she'd never _show_ it, he was quite intimidating when he was angry. No, she would not show fear; she turned to face him head-on, chin jerking up with pride and no regrets.

"We need to talk. Now." he growled, glaring balefully.

Catherine simply nodded and walked towards the 'edge' of the camp; it wasn't private by any means, but at least it would keep the others out of it, for the most part. She could hear his gait behind her; quick and angry, practically stomping. Once they got a suitable distance away, she turned on him, arching an eyebrow and motioning for him to go on.

"You... _**you killed the Arlessa!**_" he snarled, baring his teeth. "How could you do something like that?! What right do you have to choose who lives and dies? You _didn't even __**try**_ to go to the Circle! We could've sent a sodding messenger if it was too _inconvenient_ for _you_!"

She held out a hand to cut him off. "Yes. _Wonderful_ idea." she taunted with a roll of her eyes. "Let's twiddle our thumbs while a powerful demon stews in its own maniacal desires."

Alistair scoffed and waved a hand, beginning to pace in a tight circle, avoiding eye contact. "No one deserves to die like that... Maker, Cat; how can this not effect you at all?" The pacing stopped and he caught her eyes. "What kind of person are you?" he whispered raggedly, brow furrowed.

That was the _last straw._

"What kind of person am I?" she repeated heatedly. "I am a _Grey Warden_, as are you, _boy." _A tapered finger dug into his armored chest, poking harshly. "Isolde. _Her name was Isolde_ and she _wanted to save her son._ I wasn't about to put that village through _more_; if we had left – Maker's Breath, even if we just sent a messenger – that demon could have easily done _far worse_."

Catherine felt her face heat up and her breath was coming out in heavy pants. "_**Don't you dare judge me!**_ I have _**never**_ claimed to be some paragon of virtue and, by the Maker, if you continue to hold me to _your_ standards, we _will_ come to blows and I _will_ win." she growled between gritted teeth, hands clenching at her sides.

She heard him snort. "_Paragon of virtue?_ Maker, I may be slow, but there's no way I'd ever mistake you as _that._" he said, attempting to joke, but failing. "You could've done _some--_

"Tell me, Alistair," she interrupted snappishly, "should I have killed the child, then? Is that what you wanted? Because that was the only other option." Catherine shook her head mournfully, eyes cast down. "Isolde was _responsible_ for what happened there! Blood magic or not, that was justice."

"So should I expect to be used as power for your spells, then? Did you only agree to it because you _know how it works?_" the templar asked accusingly, arms crossing over his chest.

Catherine chuckled, mimicking his stance with smirk. "Nonsense. If I needed fuel, I'd used someone with _actual power_ in their veins. You're hardly fit to feed the dog."

Surprisingly, Alistair let out a small bark of laughter, though it seemed more out of nervousness than anything else. The toes of his boots dug into the soft grass as he raked a hand through his dirty hair.

"It's a bad sign that I take that as a comforting thought."

"Probably." she returned. "You're welcome to hate me. I won't promise you I won't use my abilities 'only when necessary'."

Alistair started to say something, but she shook her head. "It's _always_ necessary. Darkspawn won't be merciful. I refuse to relent just because of your _morals._"

"But... blood magic _corrupts_." he argued, rubbing the back of his neck. "Doesn't it?"

She sighed and ran her tongue along the inside of her mouth nervously. She opted for the truth. "Blood magic can be used to control the minds of others, this is true. It's extremely difficult to master and it's not permanent, but it is possible."

"And you'd be willing to do that?" Alistair asked warily.

"If it meant defeating someone trying to kill me – us? Definitely."

He blanched and took a step back from her, confusion etched on his face. "This is _wrong_. You can't... you can't expect me to be... _okay_ with this." His head shook incredulously. "I can't _forgive_ you for this, Cat. For the Arlessa... for being so..."

"Heartless?" she answered for him, completely unaffected by the implications. "Bitchy? Evil? Pragmatic?" Catherine paused, cocking her head. "Oh-so-beautiful?"

"Does it even matter to you? That I feel sick being around you?"

Catherine shrugged. "It doesn't."

"Wow. I... I thought I knew why Duncan recruited you." he murmured. Alistair's eyes drifted to the grass yet again, arms hanging limply by his sides. "Maybe you blinded him, too."

The mage considered mentioning that Duncan had been the one to give her the grimoire in the first place, but decided against it. She didn't _need_ his approval, besides the fact he would likely see it as manipulation. Her shoulders shrugged again, and she simply told him to go get some sleep.

Alistair walked off almost immediately, stomping through the brush with all the grace of a bronto. They were close enough to camp, that she saw him go straight to Leliana; the sight brought a small smile to her lips, though it soon disappeared when she saw the sister's face begin to scrunch with anger.

Arms flailed in exasperation and voices raised to far louder levels than her previous argument, though as far as she was she didn't catch most of it. She heard "second chances" and "maleficar" and "sin" mixed with "necessity" and "sacrifice". Eventually, both went to their respective tents in a huff, anger rolled off of them both.

Catherine shook her head and let out a long sigh, looking up at the moon.

"_They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world, or beyond._" she whispered to the night sky, nodding in agreement as she spoke.

Perhaps the Chant of Light did have some truth to it.


	9. Sex Goddess

_ZEVRAN! Oh you **glorious** hunk of elf. FINALLY!_

_The Ferelden Lamb and Pea soup dialogue is banter from the game, slightly altered. Do not own. 'Tis BioWare's._

_Also, I **swear** this is not an Alistair/Leliana fic. I SWEAR. Once Zevran gets into the story it'll steer away from that some, but not entirely because somehow while writing this I began to ship Al/Leli super hard. ANYWAY. Enjoy._

_p.s. I am sorry about the ending. I was **so tired** but I had to finish this chapter and ARGH._

_

* * *

_As expected, the next three days of travel were tense.

Alistair didn't deign to speak to Catherine at all, whenever she ordered him to attack, or fall back, he simply did, or answered with a curt nod. She honestly found herself enjoying the silence. Leliana seemed to be frustrated with the man, constantly huffing and sighing and looking at him pointedly; Alistair remained oblivious, obviously not understanding one of the foremost relationship rules: the man apologizes to the woman, or the woman gets angry.

Sten took point, with Damon at his side. The stoic qunari seemed no worse for wear from Redcliffe; if he distrusted her (anymore than he _did_, anyway) Catherine honestly couldn't tell.

The two mages walked along behind them, surprisingly conversational. Morrigan was openly curious about how she had learned of blood magic, why she didn't feel a stigma towards it as most people do, what the difference was in power by comparison. Eventually Catherine just agreed to let her take a look at the grimoire while at camp. The witch gave her a small, but genuine smile, and said "it would do nicely".

Sometimes, she wondered why she bothered.

Eventually, Alistair and Leliana seemed to reconcile. She caught the red-headed woman giving him some small trinket the second night at camp – a necklace by the looks of it. Whatever it was, made the templar very happy, as he practically smashed his lips on hers in a _very_ amateurish kiss that undoubtedly involved a lot of inexperienced tongue. He broke away almost as soon as it started; Catherine couldn't hear it, but she knew he was stammering out an apology. Leliana just giggled in return and gently took the object from his no doubt trembling hands, leaning forward so that her cheek pressed against him, clasping the amulet on.

Then the woman essentially dragged the confused Warden out into the forest and she didn't see them for the rest of the night. Catherine knew enough that he was still a virgin, at least, but his gazes towards the _apparently_ well-versed lay sister became decidedly more lustful.

Midday on the fourth day of travel, Catherine called for a halt.

"Alright." she began as her companions gathered 'round. "We'll need to be as inconspicuous as possible in Denerim; Loghain's got a bounty on Alistair and I, and I imagine anyone seen helping us is wanted, too." Catherine sighed.

Her staff dug into the dirt road as she twisted in anxiously. "I don't like it, but I can only take Alistair and Leliana with me. Morrigan, you look too... _you_, no offense."

"Oh, no. I take it as a compliment that I don't resemble a drooling oaf or a tittering _Chantry sister._" Morrigan smirked, eyebrow raising. "Or an innuendo laden reluctant hero."

"Coming from you, that's practically a declaration of love; why didn't you tell me sooner? So much wasted time!" she teased, clutching her heart and swooning dramatically.

The two lovebirds stifled chuckles, and Damon barked excitedly. Morrigan glared.

"There is only so much I will allow, _Catherine_." the witch replied icily. The giggling stopped.

The mage just grinned, throwing her hands up in mock-fear. "Yes, yes; scary witch! I know."

Morrigan huffed and crossed her arms under her breasts. "I will go start building the campsite, then. Sten and your mongrel are coming with me?"

The Warden nodded. "A mabari isn't out of place, but we look a bit too _common_ to have one."

They did as told and Catherine began down the road again, her fellow Warden and the lay sister in tow. Silence drifted between them like a thin mist – not uncomfortable, per se, but noticeable and somewhat annoying at times. She didn't like to admit it to herself, but she'd grown fond of Alistair's ridiculous jokes and stammering attempts to compose himself when she'd drop some mild innuendo into conversation.

Leliana, of course, was bursting at the seams from the quiet; though Catherine walked in front of her, she could _see_ the lay sister chewing her lip and bouncing nervously as she walk, on top of hearing her light humming.

Eventually, she couldn't help herself. "What was that..." she paused, searching for a word, "um... soup? That we had for dinner last night."

Alistair let out a chuckle. "Ohh, that? That's traditional Ferelden lamb and pew stew!" he declared proudly. Catherine could envision him puffing out his chest and grinning. "Did you like it?"

The woman cleared her throat delicately. Never a good sign. "Oh... so it was _lamb_ then?" she asked, obviously unsure if he was telling the truth. "It had a certain... _texture_ that I don't normally associate with lamb."

"Oh, come on! You can't tell me they never fixed you lamb and pea stew in Lothering? It's a classic!"

"We ate simply there." Leliana replied wistfully. "Whole grains, made into biscuits or bread, and vegetables from the garden, cooked lightly. No heavy stews."

Alistair "hmm"ed thoughtfully. "So the last lamb you had must've been Orlesian style, right?" he asked. Catherine assumed she gave him a nod, as he snorted dismissively. "Ugh. Food shouldn't be frilly and pretentious like that."

"Now, here in Ferelden, we do things right. We take all our ingredients, and put them into the biggest pot we can find," she was quite sure he was adding hand motions to his speech, now, "and cook them for as long as possible until everything is a uniform grey color. As soon as it looks completely bland and unappetizing, that's when I know it's done." Alistair finished with a smile evident in his voice.

"You're having me on!" Leliana said through giggles.

"Me?" he asked innocently. "I would never do such a thing to you, dear lady. You obviously haven't eaten in enough Ferelden inns."

The red-headed woman tittered and Catherine heard the sound of leather and steel straining, followed by a light smack of lips. She sighed.

After a time, Leliana skipped up to her side and linked arms, regaling her with the story of the chevalier Aveline with brilliantly timed hand gestures, allowing questions whenever she deemed fit. It took over an hour for her to get through it all, ending with note that all female chevaliers revere the woman, for her sacrifice made it possible for them to follow their own path.

Another hour slipped by lazily, Leliana flitted between Alistair and Catherine mentioning shoes and hairstyles and flowers as she went to and fro. They came to a hill that seemed to have been cut in half, the road curving down and to the right. It was an interesting sight, akin to someone using a spoon to carve out the earth.

The mage was shaken from her musings by the unmistakable screech of a damsel in distress. Almost immediately the trio caught sight of a disheveled blond woman, stumbling up the muddy hill desperately.

"Oh! Th-thank the Maker!" the woman praised. "You... you're armed-- I... can you help us? B-bandits attacked our wagon... it's... it's just down there!" She pointed a trembling finger towards the curve in the road.

Before Catherine could speak, Alistair stepped up.

"Don't worry, my lady. Bandits are our specialty." he said, flashing her a winning smile.

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes. Mighty slayers of those-too-stupid-to-run. They're still rummaging through the wagons, then?"

The distraught woman nodded frantically, biting her lip. "This way!" She sped off down the hill; Alistair and Leliana followed close behind, Catherine taking up the rear, wondering why the woman was willing to go back _toward_ the hooligans.

It all became rather clear when a sleek, tanned elf with blond, flowing hair stepped out from behind the cover.

He chuckled nonchalantly, leaning against the wood, legs crossed casually. "Ah. Lovely to meet you, Wardens." The elf made a hand gesture she didn't recognize, and six of his fellows headed for high ground. His tongue clicked as he unsheathed his blades. "A shame this couldn't be more pleasant. It's always saddening when I cannot have the opportunity to seduce my targets, first." he purred shamelessly.

"This guy can't be serious." Alistair murmured to himself, reading himself for battle.

"The Grey Warden dies here!" the elf growled.

"Apparently he is!" Catherine yelled over the twang of bows releasing. "Keep that bastard occupied, Al!"

"Leliana! Left side!" she said while ducking behind a rock. "Right is mine!"

Chaos ensued; the lithe elf danced around Alistair's sword, smirk on his face, while Leliana ran between trees and boulders, stopping to string an arrow, and firing, Catherine scorched the bandits with fire and lightning.

The henchmen dropped quickly, little match for the powerful spells and well-aimed snipes, though she had several searing glancing blows that stained her robes red and the lay sister had an arrow lodged in the shoulder joint of her armor.

Alistair roared as the woman ran to assist with the mastermind, smashing his shield into the elf's gut and knocking him into a nearby boulder with a resounding, wet smack. He crumpled down limply, blood painting where he made contact with the stone. The blond elf seemed lifeless for a moment, but he soon let out a pathetic groan, shifting on the ground in an attempt to find purchase.

The templar rose his sword to finish his job, when Catherine stepped in, grabbing his wrist before he could get enough momentum to make such an action useless.

"Cat?" he asked, incredulity and worry laced in the lone syllable.

"Don't kill him. He's not just some bandit." she replied.

"I agree with Catherine; I am quite sure they were assassins, judging from the quality of their weapons and armor." Leliana interjected, shifting weight onto her right leg.

"Alistair, look after Leliana. I'll question him. If he's useless, we'll kill him."

He sighed but acquiesced, lifting Leliana up bridal style despite her protests and sitting her on a nearby wagon to begin work on the arrow.

Catherine sat on the muddy ground next to the assassin-turned-victim, grabbing his weapons and tossing them a good distance away. She situated him so that he laid on his back, shoulders on her lap, one of her legs bent at the knee so that it supported his head in a partially upright position and proceeded to search his armor for other weapons.

Finding several daggers, a few vials of poisons, and that the man had a very toned body, Catherine set the former two off to the side with his main weaponry. Fiddling with her belt pouch, she pulled out a health poultice, uncorking with her teeth, free hand wrapping around the nape of his neck. Intentionally, she spat the stopper so that it hit him in the face; he groaned and muttered something in what she assumed was his natural tongue. Probably nothing too complimentary.

A sigh left her lungs; she plugged the vial with her thumb, using her knuckles to rap him on his bloodied cheek.

"Hey. Wake up. Nap time is over, pretty boy." Catherine grunted, using her raised leg to nudge him painfully between the shoulder blades. "Let's _go!"_

The elf's head lolled back, one eyelid cracking open slightly. "You need to work on your bedside manner, I think." he quipped, even half-conscious.

"Yeah, I'll get to work on that." she deadpanned. "Here." The vial was brought to his lips; he thankfully seemed coherent enough to understand, and swallowed.

A growl of pain left him, body convulsing as the healing took effect. After a few moments, he sighed, letting himself lean more comfortably against her legs. Amber eyes opened widely, and locked with her gaze, seemingly studying her in some way she couldn't understand, before allowing his sight to drift to her temptingly close bosom, then back up to her face.

Now _that_ she understood.

"Ah. You must be one of the Maker's angels, yes? Come to spirit me away to His side for all of my good deeds?" he pleaded more than asked, before his eyebrows waggled lasciviously. "Might we have time to indulge in... _earthly pleasures_ before I am forced to leave your side? Surely the Maker would not wish such cruelty on me."

Alistair let out a snort. "Oh, Maker. Just what we need, another Cat." he groaned. Leliana made a small indignant sound and smacked him on the shoulder, shushing him.

Catherine just smirked, letting the fingers of the hand on his neck lace through his surprisingly soft hair, tugging hard enough that he'd remember the situation he was in.

"So. Talk."

The assassin quirked an eyebrow. "Of course, beautiful Warden." he drawled silkily. "My name is Zevran, Zev to my friends," The man had the audacity to _wink_ while weaponless in her lap, after trying to kill her, "and I was sent to kill the remainder of the Grey Wardens."

Leliana cleared her throat. "I believe he is a Crow, Catherine. The accent is Antivan." she pointed out with a nod.

From his position, he couldn't see the lay sister, but apparently that was a formality. "That is true. I must say, I am rather put out. I'll have to kill the informants who failed to mention that the remaining Wardens – and company – were so _ravishing._"

The templar made some kind of growling noise, and the Antivan chuckled in response. "And so aggressive! This country has its charms, doesn't it?"

"So does yours, it seems" she flirted shamelessly. May as well with a handsome man's face in your lap. "But, business first. Who sent you?"

Zevran seemed to take another appraising look at her, an odd look in his eye. It was... intrigue? He seemed almost impressed.

"Mmm. I believe the man's name was Loghain?" he mentioned. "There were no details, but I know this dance; you threaten his power in some way, yes?"

The mage deemed not to answer, instead focusing on his employer. "You're useless to me, then. I already know Loghain wants me dead." she sighed sadly. "I was hoping you'd be some exciting third-party that wanted my head. Loghain is getting quite boring."

She heard a "you're insane" from where her companions were, but ignored it.

The assassin grinned. "Oh, but I am quite useful, dear woman. I... well, I have a proposal for you, if you're of a mind."

"Not that I don't mind an audience sometimes, but I don't think this is the place. Plus I could do five things within the first few minutes that'd make Alistair's head explode."

"Which head?" Zevran returned, not missing a beat.

"Both." she stated, nodding to herself. "But the one in his pants would definitely go off first."

Both Leliana and Zevran let out a bark of laughter; the victim of the teasing was letting out all sorts of odd strangled noises.

The elf shifted himself so that her bent leg was pushed flat, his head resting comfortably at the apex of her legs. He knowingly shook his head back and forth under the pretense of getting situated; heated tingles coursed across her entire body.

He stared up at her as innocently as a Chantry boy, though. "The Crows are not particularly gracious employers, you see. I failed to kill you, thus my life is forfeit."

"And? If you finished the job later?" she asked, knowing where he was headed.

"They would kill me as an example." Zevran replied factually. "The only way I'd be safe, is to sign up with someone they can't touch." He shifted his head again, nodding her direction with a smirk. "You've already defeated one of their top men. My best hope of survival is to serve you, instead."

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms under her breasts, partially covering his face – though not enough to miss the raised brow in her direction. "You must think I'm royally stupid."

He clicked his tongue chidingly. "Not at all. I think you're royally tough to kill." Zevran paused for effect, and dug his skull a little deeper into her lap, making her shift in her seat. "And utterly gorgeous. There are worse things in life than serving the whims of a deadly sex goddess, let me tell you."

A genuine stream of laughter bubbled from her throat. "Oh, my. We'll keep you." she grinned, patting his head fondly. "I could use someone to compliment me constantly."

"What?! We're taking the _assassin_ with us?" Alistair's voice was breaking with rage. "Do you have a death wish or something?"

Catherine began to speak, when Leliana broke in. "Catherine is right; everyone deserves a second chance."

"I'm not letting her bring along a _killer _just because she likes what he says!" the templar argued.

"Oh, Maker." Catherine exasperated, turning her torso to look at Alistair. "Do you _really_ think I'm that stupid? I mean _honestly_? He cut you up pretty damn well, and as far as I can see, we could use someone to warn us if his bosses decided to send a small army next time."

She held up a hand to forestall any argument. "It's settled. He's coming with us." she declared. "Now get started towards the camp, Leliana needs rest. We'll head to Denerim tomorrow."

Alistair looked like he was going to protest, but decided against it. Wrapping the lay sister's arm around his shoulder, he started off up the road they came from.

Zevran sat up, quickly rising to his feet and offering a helping hand. Her eyes drank in the offering, taking mental note of callouses and scars, before accepting it, fulling expecting his too-powerful pull that sent her into his arms, crushed against his leather-clad chest.

"You are too kind..." he breathed across her lips, trailing off in question.

A giggle left her lips. "Oh, like you care about a name?" Zevran simply arched an eyebrow. "Catherine." she relented.

A smirk tugged at his lips, to the point of flashing teeth. "Mmm. You are too kind, kitten. I hope I am able to repay you, someday?" he purred, but pushed her back.

Catherine just grinned. "Get your weapons, _Zevran_." she ordered. "Leave the poison, if you would be so kind."

The assassin did as he was told, smirk not leaving his face. When he was done, she nodded down the path her other two companions took and began to walk, him quickly reaching her side, but saying nothing.

Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she couldn't help but thing that things had just gotten _good._ In an entirely _wrong_ way, of course.

When Zevran winked at her, indicating he knew of her stares – and probably her thoughts – she was certain she was right.


	10. Inquisitive

_Okay, this was originally supposed to be a combination of all five days it takes for them to get to the Circle (next destination), but it didn't work out that way because Zev and Cat are impossible when they get together. I know this seems fast, but honest to God, you're lucky she didn't ravage him on the dirt road. Or unlucky, I guess, depending on your views! Anyway, Cat's not had a man in near a month even **worse** she's had no one capable of flirting with her. She's shameless and enjoys seduction and sex just as much as Zevran does. Feelings come **much, much** later in this Zev fic; that's not to say that there won't be relationship development, though. I promise this won't be WOO SMUT then all the sudden I LOVE YOU!_

_~Ser_

_

* * *

_When he was brought back to the Wardens' camp, he was disarmed (again) by the one named "Alistair" - he just thought of him as "the one with a wonderfully shaped backside". This was to be expected, as was being guarded; he had to give their gorgeous leader credit, she was brilliant enough to put her mabari and a qunari with a sense of humor that rivaled the Grand Cleric's – see: none. The assassin had no chance of charming his way out – not that something so trivial stopped him. With a rough hand, Zevran was persuaded to sit on a log by their bonfire by the statuesque warrior, who then took to staring solemnly towards the horizon, emotionless. Damon, for his part, just sat in front of him, tongue lolling out of his mouth in a sort of dog-grin.

After an hour, he broke the deafening silence. "So, Sten, is it?" he asked with a cock of his head. The qunari didn't budge, and didn't answer. "That is your 'yes' then?" Still nothing. "Good to know. I am curious of your delectable leader; would you--"

"No." he cut in, gruffly. Zevran waited for more explanation, idly plucking at bits of bark, glancing about the camp with fake interest.

Nothing.

"You really shouldn't treat your guests in such a way." he said while leaning back slightly, looking way, way up to the qunari's face, half-smiling. "It's _quite_ rude."

Sten still did not make eye contact. "You are not a _guest_, elf. You are an enemy; a prisoner that has yet to prove his worth." he scoffed. To make his point clear, the frighteningly muscular man dug the tip of his greatsword into the soft ground, both hands coming to rest at the pommel in a not-quite-at-ease stance.

Zevran let out a long-suffering sigh, and turned his attention to the dog. "Well, then. Would you tell me something about her?"

Damon huffed and shook his head, drool flying in all directions, but thankfully missing the assassin. Zevran was about to continue his conversation, when the mabari practically levitated from his position, and began running in tight circles, with the occasional leap thrown in for good measure. The dog let out a series of yips as he wore down an unintentional path in the long grass, then suddenly stopped in his tracks, staring in the direction of the main camp, dropping down onto his forepaws, wagging his tail in the air with a ferocity that shook his entire body.

He understood why when Catherine appeared, two water skins tied to her loosely cinched belt, a bowl in each hand, and swinging her hips so provocatively that _even he_ was impressed.

"Dinner's ready, you two." she said. "Go ahead and get some, I'll watch after our newest inductee into madness."

The two guards looked at her, then at him, then at each other, before shrugging (or the dog equivalent) and heading back the way Catherine came. She turned her head to watch them go, waiting until they were out of sight before turning her attention back to him – did she already trust him not to stab her in the back? He felt his brow furrow at the though – she had displayed remarkable intelligence in the short time he had known her, why do something so blatantly dangerous, _stupid_ even?

Some of what he was thinking must have shown on his face, because the woman arched a brow, plush lips twisted into a wry grin.

He smirked back. "I had no idea that you were a serving wench as well as a fearsome slayer of darkspawn." he remarked teasingly, eager to test the woman's limits; not the smartest thing he'd ever done, but there were times his inquisitiveness overcame his common sense.

"You forgot the part about being _ravishing_." Her voice took on a slight purr in an imitation of his accent; she was actually quite convincing. _No doubt because of her tongue,_ he thought as it darted out to wet her lips. "That's a full-time job, you know."

With that the woman winked and handed him a bowl of... well, he wasn't sure _what_ it was. Zevran was always careful when it came to food – a reflex from spending most of his life amongst professional murderers who always looked for awhile to get around the immunity all Crows are forced to build up – and this sorry excuse for a stew did nothing for suspicions. Catherine sat down beside him on the log after he took the bowl, crossing her legs at the ankle so that the slit in her robes only _just_ flashed him with tempting glances of chocolate skin.

The desire to idly stroke the barely exposed skin was so powerful, Zevran had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check; it was easy to forget what it was like to be around a woman who knew her body and how to _flaunt_ it so expertly.

Catherine began to eat, albeit without _any_ gusto, face scrunched up as if she were in great agony. Judging by the smell, she likely was.

Picking up the wooden spoon, he poked at the bits of mystery meat. "Shall I assume this is how you kill all your victims?" In an attempt to be daring, he took a bite; it took all of his willpower not to grimace from the horrid taste.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, swallowing a bite before speaking. "Oh, there's nothing _lethal_ in here, contrary to the taste." Zevran heard the mischievous lilt in her voice, but took another bite defiantly; the corner of her mouth quirked up and he regretted the action almost immediately, but didn't backpedal.

"However, there's a few herbs in there that will render you impotent for the next few days." she added, sounding more like she was commenting on the weather.

It took everything he had not to spit out the food in his mouth. She was testing his limits just as he had been testing hers. _Interesting,_ he mused, smiling inwardly, _setting the board, are we, little minx?_ He _would not_ back down, Zevran rarely got the chance to banter with someone so utterly uninhibited – most Crows had no sense of humor. To that end, he swallowed, although it was more hesitant than he would have liked, and turned to face her, eyes combing over her face as she returned the motion, tilting her head playfully.

"Mmm." he murmured, leaning in close enough that their noses nearly touched. "Why would you punish _yourself_ so, my dear?" Two of his fingers walked across her hand, which was resting on the patch of bark between them, until they came to rest on the sensitive skin of her wrist. His lips curved into a decidedly smug smirk when he saw her eyes drift close as he stroked sensually. "Though," he continued huskily, "that is only _one_ of the many ways I can please you, kitten."

Zevran expected her to roll her eyes, perhaps giggle shyly and pull back, as a tease might be inclined to do; he had been particularly brazen for having only met the woman a few hours ago, after attempting to kill her, at that, but the woman continued to amaze him.

Hungrily, she pressed her lips to his, hand moving from the log to the nape of his neck, fingers tugging at the sensitive hairs, as if to force him to respond. As surprised as he was, Zevran was rather proud of himself for only stiffening for a moment before instinctively melting into the kiss, wrapping his hands around her waist, gripping tightly in encouragement.

A needy, mewling noise emanated from her as he slipped his tongue against hers, automatically tangling together in a sensual, teasing dance that made the taste of that horrible stew unnoticeable. Her idle hand decided to make itself useful, by dotting his bare thigh with feather light touches that sent tingles straight to his already hardening length.

The wicked minx broke the kiss with a low chuckle, sliding her hand up and down his leg before withdrawing back to her original position, though she made no move to remove his hands from her hip. Catherine had a purely _female_ smirk on her delicious swollen lips as she breathed heavily to make up for the elongated lack of air.

Zevran's hands flexed against her hip, squeezing the curve (and eliciting a delightful gasp from the owner of them) before pulling them back, resting his wrists on his legs, hands limply hanging.

"I admit, I didn't expect _that_." he said, voice thick with desire. An eyebrow rose in her direction "Shall I meet you in your tent tonight, then?" He mentally thanked the Maker that he didn't sound as _wanting_ as he really was.

She let out a small titter - it was an oddly endearing sound from someone so _sexual_ – and shook her head, much to his disappointment. "Not yet." was all she said, before rising from her seat.

Catherine brushed off the bits of leaves and wood from her bottom, favored him with another one of her half-smiles, and prowled off back to camp, leaving him utterly alone.

She was _testing_ him, perhaps even giving him a chance to run away, free of any obligation to her, or anyone else. Free to make his own choices, be his own man... ever since Rinna, he just didn't _want_ anything any longer; it was all so pointless – he was nothing, as the Master had told him.

The road was before him, and yet he couldn't help but be _intrigued_. After all, if she was _kind_ enough to let him go now, why would she refuse later, after he satisfied his curiosity? _Well, _he thought, smug grin creeping on his face, _once I ruin her for other men she may not be so inclined. Deadly sex goddess, indeed._

Zevran gathered himself up and repeated the gesture she had earlier, freeing his leathers from debris, and headed toward the camp. He had always been inquisitive, and it always burned out eventually; he would be free after he slept with her, no doubt.


	11. Tracts of Land

_Sooo, this ended up being longer than I thought, herp derp. Zevran gets two more POV chapters before I switch back to Catherine; the entire Circle bit is going to take awhile and be all about her, so I figure that'll be okay. Enjoy!_

_

* * *

_

At dawn, Catherine had announced that she would take the voluptuous red-head and the beautifully well-formed Chantry boy along with Zevran himself to the main city. It was clear to him why she was avoiding bringing the more _noticeable_ companions, but he did not understand his inclusion; it hadn't been too long ago that Loghain had hired him, and any number of his men could have seen him, never mind the man himself.

When he brought the issue up as the Warden was double checking her pack, she simply handed him a cloak and said that he'd be 'earning his keep' in Denerim. Zevran was intrigued by what she meant, but he couldn't let go of the opportunity to ask if he was going to work out of a whorehouse or be a freelancer. Again, she surprised him; rather than rolling her eyes or giggling shyly like most women would do, she said, "I figured we'd find someplace public to test your skills; by your bragging I imagine my screams would convince every woman in Denerim to spend their coin on you." She had said it so completely and utterly deadpan, the assassin couldn't help but be impressed.

The walk to the city was oddly pleasant, if a tad aggravating due to the soft lover's whispers between Alistair and Leliana. He spent his time behind Cat, under the pretense of being lecherous and taking in the _glorious_ roll of her hips. Technically, he had been doing just that, but his _real_ goal was to watch _her_ in this leader role, something that Zevran didn't see such a... free spirit as Catherine enjoying.

Being who he was, and being from where he was from, the elf was used to people – especially women, due to how _delicate_ they were perceived to be in Antiva – having multiple sides and masks and roles that only a master could really keep track of, and even then, those people tended to have nothing _under_ all those disguises.

With Catherine, it was different. Admittedly he hadn't known the woman very long, but he was an abnormally observant person, even for a Crow, and he felt he had a connection to her - something that intrigued him as much as it disturbed him. The mage was _confidant_ to the point of well-deserved arrogance: her posture was straight, chin held high in way of knowing superiority, and her gait, while purposefully sexual, was also enhanced by the powerful strides of her _entrancingly_ long legs. The leadership role seemed to settle on her her shoulders like some decorative shawl; it was there only to make her _look better_, not as a burden, and this fascinated him.

On the few occasions they were able to be relatively alone during the four hour walk to Denerim, her body language never changed in the slightest - to keep the illusion of command firmly in place, Zevran surmised – but tension lines around her eyes and mouth seemed to dissipate. She sporadically made eye contact with him, follow by a hardly noticeable tug at the corner of her mouth.

It was maddening how confusing Catherine was; Zevran knew plenty of people who thrived of the potential of danger, many of them found being with an assassin to be exceptionally unsafe, but he didn't get that same _vibe_ from the dark-skinned beauty. Was she inviting death? Were her glances subtle pleas for release, or was she simply testing him, seeing if he would take the bait?

The only woman – the only _person _or _thing_, even – to ever throw him off so entirely had be Rinna, and that realization cranked up his already quite ratcheted paranoia to even unhealthier levels.

As they reached the gates of Denerim, the two lovebirds went off – something to do with a sister? - and that left him alone with Cat, utterly bemused by the entire situation but professional (and experienced) enough not to let it show.

The mage crossed her arms under her breasts(that was entirely for show, he just knew) and looked out toward the market. "Right. I have supplies to pick up, new fabric to shop for, need to check in with the guards – see how much we need to pay them to keep them quiet – find this Genetivi..." she rambled to herself, counting off her errands with her tapered, feminine fingers.

She locked eyes with him. "You," the word was punctuated with a point towards him, "will be going through the market and pickpocketing."

Zevran felt his face scrunch in distaste. "_Pickpocketing?_ Surely you jest. I say we find a relatively clean stall, have wild sex that would put your _Fereldan_ whores to shame, and then I shall tend to the undoubtedly unsatisfied population of Denerim while you count our spoils." He grinned lasciviously, though truly, he was only half-joking; wild sex with her _anywhere_ would likely be loud enough to bring a number of callers.

"Perhaps I just don't want to share you, _Zevran_." she replied with a playful half-smile, before jerking her chin out towards the multitude of what he assumed were minor nobles, a thin brow arching in challenge.

A throaty chuckle rumbled from him. "Ah, my kitten, you needn't worry." With flourish, he lifted the hood of his cloak, forward enough to hide his face, but not _too forward_ to make it look like he was intentionally hiding, and bowed. "I am at your disposal, no matter the... _service_ you need."

"Mmm," was her response as she turned to walk away, "Leliana mentioned Denerim's best whorehouse was The_ Pearl_, down by the docks." And with that, she was gone. No subtle glance over the shoulder, no teasing about 'needing release', just the faint scent of cinnamon she left in her wake.

The assassin could do nothing but comply with her command, as humiliated as it was. It wasn't as if he hadn't pickpocketed before, it was that he was _beyond _that now, or he _had been_. He needed to remind himself that he was, in fact, no longer a Crow, thus his benefits were now gone and he was back more akin to his first days in their organization – even more worthless than he was as an elite murderer of the uppermost echelons.

Deft hands an a distracting smile made it easy for him to gather a small fortune in gems and sovereigns and other baubles in a matter of a few hours – sooner than he anticipated. With no real idea when Catherine and the others would be finished, he began his way toward the docks in search of _The Pearl_, if only to sample from Ferelden's bouquet.

* * *

The next days were spent in the drudgery of travel. Their fearless leader had announced that they would be heading to the Circle Tower – or as she so lovingly called it: "that phallus shaped stone prison" - in an attempt to save this Arl Eamon's life. When Alistair asked why they shouldn't head straight for Haven - the village they had learned of through Brother Genetivi's abandoned researched – Catherine simply scoffed and said that she had more faith in Wynne and Arella than she did in Andraste being some prophet who's burnt remains would bring rainbows and kittens to the rest of the world. The remark earned her some scalding glares from the more pious members of the team, though the scantily clad, yellow-eyed woman – Morrigan, was it? - looked as if she was biting off a chuckle.

They spent all of the second day in a full march that immediately reminded Zevran that he was far more used to short excursions in rather comfortable settings than hours upon hours of hard walking. Still, he couldn't complain; he was amongst incredibly good-looking companion and happened to be alive for the time being – life was... decent.

Catherine, apparently, agreed with his line of thought: she organized the formation in such a way that Sten and her mabari took point, followed by Alistair, with him and herself behind them, and Morrigan and Leliana taking up the rear. As such, Zevran and the devious little kitten beside him, had a rather enticing view of the virginal templar's backside – truly, he couldn't be blamed for what happened.

"I'm impressed by the view here in Ferelden." he remarked offhandedly, pointedly _not_ looking at the scenery, but at the firm buttocks ahead of him.

Unsurprisingly, Catherine caught on immediately. "Oh, yes. I'm rather fond of the foothills in the horizon, especially."

His brow furrowed in mock-thought. "Foothills, you say? Are they not more akin to mountains, my dear?" Zevran's brow rose subtly, it clearly said, to those who knew the language: 'How far are you willing to go?'

Catherine, of course, was fluent in the language of innuendo. "Mountains are too... _hard_. Stiff. Unyielding. Do you not prefer the gentle curves of the hills?" she gestured an hourglass figure and countered with a risen brow of her own.

Zevran's amber eyes fixed on her cleavage, smirk tugging at his lips. "Do not mistake me, kitten, the _curvature_ of the foothills are..." he sighed wistfully for effect, "breathtaking. But I happen to... _take in_ all sorts of landscape. From narrow valleys," Those eyes flickered directly to said valley between her breasts, before he turned back to Alistair's backside and gesturing flamboyantly, "to _plains_ and _mountains_ and everything in between."

Various forms of giggles and choking sounds were heard behind him, he simply grinned and watched Cat for an answer. Just as she opened her mouth, (in a rather lovely 'o' shape that he was entirely too distracted by) Alistair cut in.

"You two realize the only thing we have around us right now are trees," he gestured to the right without looking back, "_trees_," to the left, "oh, and some... more trees!" Zevran couldn't see it, but he was quite sure the man was pointing towards the horizon. "You all need to get your eyes checked." he grumbled.

Before the assassin could pounce, Catherine did.

"Oh, no. We were talking about your ass." she said simply. "You look great in those new trousers, by the way, did Leliana pick them out?"

Alistair stopped as if he'd been glued to the ground, whereas Sten and Damon just kept going. Leliana came to stand by Catherine's side, biting her lip in a smile, shoulders shaking, while the witch stood awhile back in a form of detached amusement.

"You... you what?!" he cried indignantly, turning to face the little mage. Catherine just shrugged in response.

"It's a compliment. Don't get your smallclothes in a twist, Al. We were simply _admiring the landscape_." she completed the sentence with a heated appraisal of his body. The red-headed woman's face was turning an impressive shade, similar to her hair, from keeping laughter at bay, even the witch was chuckling to herself.

Alistair, for his part, was shocked. Looking between Zevran, Catherine, and Leliana, glaring at them all. "_Maker's Breath_, I am _not_ some piece of meat in a butcher's shop! Quit--"

That was all the 'violated' man could get out before all four of the spectators doubled over in laughter. Zevran hadn't laughed so hard _in his life_. There were _tears_ and his stomach ached and _all of them_ eventually got to the point where they were gasping for air.

The templar made a frustrated growl, before turning and stomping off after the now far-ahead qunari and dog; Leliana followed right after him, attempting to grab his hand only to have it weakly shook off.

A tittering Morrigan went off soon after, leaving Cat and Zevran still chuckling pathetically – more a whine than anything – drawing in ragged breaths and leaning on each other for support. After they got themselves under control, they wordlessly moved on after the others, though smiles were still plastered on their faces goofily. It was one of the oddest things he had ever experienced in his years – he had no shortage of laughter, but it had never been with a woman, or more importantly, a woman he was interested in.

While he was musing over this fact, he caught Catherine's gaze, and they ended up laughing all over again, well within the earshot of their victim. His enraged noise of indignation only made them laugh louder, and Zevran forgot what he was thinking about.


	12. Memories

_Sorry. This chapter isn't very good, and took me forever to get done. Transition chapter is transitiony and boring. Hopefully the next chapters will make up for this._

_

* * *

_The following two days were a lesson in "everyone is hiding something." It didn't surprise Zevran in the slightest, honestly; everyone is out for themselves in the end, no matter how important the information may be, your 'friend' will keep it to themselves in an attempt to save face, or get what they _really_ want. Yes, he knew the betrayal of friends and lovers all too well to be shocked by the numerous revelations, but what surprised him was that Catherine took it all with a sort of resigned indifference.

Morrigan had mentioned her _mother_ had some grimoire taken from her by the Chantry, a decent story and seemingly harmless in nature - a way to, perhaps, humanize herself in the small band of misfits (no matter how much she may scoff at conformity, he knew better). Regardless of any desires the witch might have had to 'fit in', Zevran was – again – unsurprised to learn that her thirst for power and supremacy overrode such frivolities quickly, to the point of _asking Catherine for help_ in retrieving the tome from the Circle, to which the dark-skinned mage simply nodded.

Catherine was no altruist; Zevran imagined she wanted the grimoire for herself as much as she wanted to return it to Morrigan, – they obviously had some odd form of friendship, or at least mutual respect – probably even more so.

Zevran had thought that would have been enough for her to have to deal with, truly, but the not-so-innocent Chantry sister had other plans. He had only just caught the conversation, Leliana admitting to being a bard, and a very good one by the sounds of it. Despite finally divulging her rather sordid past of seduction and information gathering, she was _still_ hiding something – something that no doubt could harm Catherine. Not that he _cared_ if some bitter noble came for revenge and got the mage in the process, it would, in fact, make his life easier; Zevran was not one who enjoyed being _indebted_ to someone, no matter how ravishing they might be.

Part of him – that cruel, ruthless part that made him such and efficient Crow – wanted to finish the job he was sent to do, just to be free of her, even though she made no claims on him. He fought with it every day, it seemed; Catherine seemed so _trusting_ of him, so _at ease_ it made him feel ill at times – anyone foolish enough to trust _him_ ended up dead. The woman was this incredibly odd mixture of cold pragmatism and calculating wit, with a sort-of-but-not-really innocence that came from being locked away in a tower her entire life. Catherine was by no means _naive;_ the very thought of her being gullible or nonsensical would have no doubt been enough to convince him to leave. Not that he hadn't ever taken advantage of some young, confused thing before – he had and with great pleasure, even – but it had very little... _draw_ for him; Zevran preferred partners that understood the game, to an extent.

As the hours crept by, the thoughts became all-consuming, though he never let on. She wasn't _distracting_, per se; he never felt like he was in danger from thinking of her so often, but she was an intriguing puzzle. The flirtatious mage was on one hand, very entertaining and engaging in conversation, intelligent and quick to barb with her dagger-like tongue, but on the other hand, she was often silently awed by simple things. Zevran one caught her dropping back behind the group to _pick a flower_, wistful smile plastered on her face as she twirled the stem between her thumb and forefinger, not unlike a young child finding some secret. He watched her from the corner of his eye as she took the little treasure and placed it between the pages of a small, worn book, before slipping it back into her pack; that beautiful, unguarded curve of her lips disappeared almost as soon as it had begun.

Her interest in _simple_ things made sense given her lifetime surrounded by stone, but it was still bewildering at times, especially given her ruthlessness in battle. It seemed to be some unspoken agreement between the entire party that they humor Catherine's seemingly endless questions about life _outside_ of her Tower. He had amused her on multiple occasions during their walks with talk of Antiva City's docks, the smell of Rialto Bay, and a tale or two of some of his earlier works as a Crow. For some unknown reason, he found himself... skimming over some of the more _disgusting_ details of his sightings and exploits – the smell of rotting flesh and people selling themselves for a handful of copper didn't exactly make Antiva seem all that mystical.

The strangest thing was that he was quite sure Catherine knew he was leaving out the more morbid details, at times, and said nothing; she seemed completely content to close her eyes as he spoke of the hills of wildflowers in constant bloom, taking in every little detail he could remember of the colors and smells. When he was done with his tales, she would nod her head – whether in thanks or acknowledgment, he wasn't sure – give him a small quirk of her mouth, then continue on with whatever she was doing in camp before he had distracted her.

Eventually, he realized that, while the party seemed to be willing to go into details of their childhood or home, they never seemed to bring up _Catherine. _At first, he simply thought they had already discussed it, or perhaps that they all thought that because she was trapped in a prison, she had nothing interesting to add, but as time went on, he never once heard her drop even the smallest of details about her once-home, the only thing she ever seemed to talk about was someone named Arella, and even though it was obvious she cared about whomever this Arella was, she still rarely brought her up. This didn't set well with Zevran at all; he hated being at a disadvantage, and the worst part of it was that he did this to himself by... what _was_ he trying to do by regaling her slightly exaggerated stories of his home? Of his work? It wasn't as if accidentally killing a mage was very impressive.

Maker, he _hated_ her sometimes and it was all he could do to keep himself from slitting her throat while she slept. Occasionally, he could have sworn he heard Rinna's malicious laugh in the back of his head, mocking him for being saved by someone who would do nothing but remind him of his betrayal.

The assassin shook his head in a desperate attempt to ward away the images that always came with that line of thinking. In an endeavor to distract himself from Rinna's taunting, and his own guilt, Zevran set out from his tent in search for this merry band's fearless leader. It was night on their fourth day of travel, and the Circle Tower loomed on the horizon; a tall, shadowy sentinel amidst Lake Calenhad's near-black, thrashing waters. Catherine had insisted that they break camp out in the surrounding forest, rather than using the inn by the lake's shore; no one deemed to argue with her command.

To his trained eyes, she was obviously tense. Subtle things like her shoulders bunching, or her jaw clenching as she ground her teeth, and most of all, her large, chocolate-colored eyes kept flicking to where the shadowy pillar stood, despite not being able to actually see it through the trees. Now that the camp was settled and she had no watch for the night, she took her place by the fire, across from his currently standing position.

Catherine's little post-watch(or no-watch, as the case was) ritual well known to him. Not because he watched her constantly, mind you, but because of the absolutely stunning view she laid before him when she attempted to relax, book in hand and Damon as a pillow. The slight, but curvaceous woman wore a shift that was far too small for her, and were it not for her incredibly tight trousers, he would have gotten an even better show – though, honestly, with the pants as snug as they were... well they didn't leave much to the imagination, not that Zevran was complaining. Catherine let her hair down from it's messy bun, revealing that she had lustrous locks that flowed all the way down to her waist. The strands were jet-black and naturally wavy and the _perfect_ length to make undressing her even more enticing than it already was.

The thought of her clothed only with her hair, bathed in firelight as she was now... he felt a small whimper emanate from his throat. _Maker's Breath_, he thought, rather angry as himself, _I need to bed that woman._

Her purposefully husky chuckle drew him from his reverie. "Imagining me naked, Zevran?"

Zevran grinned and slunk over to her side, sitting down on the bedroll she had laid outside her tent in a seemingly single movement. "Not at all." he returned with a playful finger stroking the arch of her bare foot. "_Technically_, you were covered."

Her response was a roll of the eyes, but she made no move to stop his touching; the assassin decided it was an invitation, thus he twisted himself about so that he could prop her abused feet on his lap, and began to work both thumbs into the ball of one. Catherine let out an appreciative groan, closing her book, setting it aside almost in a reverent fashion.

"Mmm. I knew it was a good idea to keep you around." she murmured, gasping as his thumbs dug down into the arch. "Maker's _balls, _I should have known you'd be good at this."

A smug smirk crept onto his face, but he kept the number of lascivious comments on the tip of his tongue to himself. As enticing as it was to banter with his now-moaning savior, Zevran wanted to see if he could rub some answers out of her. If nothing else, this would at least let her know what she was missing.

"So, my kitten," he drawled, running his palms up and down the length of her sole, "I am curious: who is this Arella you've mentioned?" His hands moved to continue his ministrations on the neglected foot. "You don't seem the type to be so _attached _to a former lover."

The snort he heard would have done a horse proud – even the laughter afterwords was so hysterical is was akin to whinny. Confused, and more than a little concerned she was having some sort of _female_ episode, Zevran stopped his massage, and gently began extricating himself from under her legs. He was almost free when a soft hand on his wrist stopped him. Catherine shook her head, a few errant locks of hair covering her eyes; he pointedly ignored the impulse to brush the hairs away.

"I'm sorry" she said between subsiding giggles, waving her hands about as if she were warding off some evil spirit. "It's just... the thought of... 'Rell and.. and" Catherine snorted _again _and clutched her stomach, whining in pain as she laughed so hard, tears came to her eyes. The clearly insane woman was completely unfazed when her living-pillow huffed and wandered off toward the monolithic Sten, causing her head to hit the ground with a dull 'thunk'. If she was hurt, the only indication Zevran got was the small, pathetic whimpering noises she made as she desperately tried to calm herself through a series of quick, ragged breaths.

Zevran had no idea how long it took her to calm down; asking her 'if she was done yet' only caused her to giggle _even more_ to the point that he _had_ to laugh with her. He had no idea what was so funny, or why he was laughing, but her sweet, slightly husky titters were contagious; he figured if he had to be infected by something, laughter with his little mage was an agreeable disease.

After Maker knows how long, they both finally seemed to be freed of whatever giggle-monster had suddenly decided to take hold of them, though it was more from exhaustion than any real desire to stop. Zevran decided to take hold of the reigns and let his fingers rub firm circles into her ankle, motioning with a nod of his head for her to continue.

Catherine's eyes drifted close, small smile gracing her lips as she spoke. "Arella Surana: she's this Elf I met when I first came to the tower." The smile grew a bit wider as she flexed her ankle in his hands. "She was annoying, bouncy, and all-smiles. Rell loved the Tower, even though she wasn't really amazing at anything. Well, until _Wynne_ got a hold of her."

His hands crept up the curve of her cloth-covered calf, squeezing firmly in encouragement; she sighed heavily and nodded. "Wynne was this old biddy with a stick up her ass. She hated me, and tormented me because I couldn't get a handle on healing, while Arella mastered it within a few lessons." Catherine nudged his thigh with her untended foot in an unspoken command; Zevran obeyed, dragging his calloused hands up and down her shin.

"A friend, then?" he prodded.

"Yeah. A friend." she confirmed. "I miss her." The raw emotion in her voice caused his hands to stop; the soft, weak voice _demanded _that he look into her eyes. If he didn't know better, he would've sworn that her normally intense, mirthful eyes were damp.

Awkwardly, she drew her knees up to her chest and gave him a pathetic excuse for a smile, clearly distressed. "Thanks for the rubdown, Zev." A trembling hand patted him on his thigh. "Maybe next time we can nix the clothing, huh?"

With that, she drug her book and bedroll into her tent, not bothering to wait for an answer. He sat there for a time, brow furrowed to the point of giving himself a headache; he had no idea what just happened.

Figuring it was best for everyone that he forget this night ever happened, the elf hefted himself up and went over to his own abode, across the way from Catherine's. As he mechanically unbuckled the straps of his armor, he heard Rinna return with a vengeance.

_Oh, how delightful_, the sickeningly sweet voice of his once-lover taunted, _your new pet feels **comfortable** around you. I wonder if she'd feel so **safe** if she knew you thought of slitting her throat more often than making love to her._

Zevran growled to himself, grinding his teeth painfully as he toed off his boots and slid on the trousers he used to sleep in, before slipping into his bedroll. If he just ignored her...

_Aw. What is it, Zev? She's no more beautiful than I was... and I bet she's nowhere near as flexible._ Images of Rinna tangled in his bedsheets flashed before his eyes. Nights of wild, passionate love-making, bodies covered in sweat and other bodily fluids. It was primal and _loud_ and--

Suddenly, the image of his elven assassin lying next to him was clear; he remembered that night. It was the night of their mission, and Taliesin had told him of her 'betrayal. The chestnut haired woman lying in the crook of his arm was sleeping peacefully, contentedly, occasionally snuggling in closer in unconscious state.

Despite the loving scene in his mind, Zevran had no tender feelings from that evening. Contempt. Hatred. Betrayal. All of those things burned in his heart as his memory-self pressed his lips against her forehead.

"_Fino a quando ci incontreremo di nuovo, caro mia_*." he breathed against her skin.

Tears stung his eyes, but did not fall free; it was always the same when he thought of that night, remembering so clearly the pain, like a hot poker burning a hole in his chest. He had so desperately wanted to confess his feelings, perhaps to turn her away from her betrayal, but his inner Crow wouldn't allow it. Rinna betrayed him, betrayed their mission, betrayed the _Crows _and _death_ would be her punishment. Honestly, it was far kinder than the unspeakable things the masters enjoyed subjecting traitors to, even loyalists got the treatment on occasion, to remind them. Or, at least, that's how he rationalized it.

Zevran shuddered involuntarily and clenched his eyes closed, tossing and turning in an attempt to ward off the next scene that always followed. His entire body tensed in anticipation and fear... but nothing came. No blood, no tears, no declarations of love. A sigh of relief whooshed out of him as he let himself relax slightly, slowing allowing sleep to overtake him, praying fervently for a dreamless night.

* * *

_*Fino a quando ci incontreremo di nuovo, caro mia. = Until we meet again, my dear._


	13. Used

_Smut chapter. Woo~_

_

* * *

_Zevran awoke barely two hours later, not that such a thing was particularly new to him. Being an assassin and a Crow was detrimental to one's sleeping patterns, he found; all the training hammered into him to react to even the smallest of noises was incredibly valuable and had saved his sorry life more times than he could count. However, in camp, where there was almost constant noise, he found himself rousing from sleep several times a night, rather than the once or twice that was the norm.

Still, he didn't mind the interruption in the long run; there were very few moments when he was truly alone, and in the blackness of night, Zevran liked to lay in bed and let his mind wander. At times, it seemed his imagination had a vendetta against his sanity and willpower, but perhaps the entirety of his mind felt he had been through enough that eve. His eyelids fluttered close as he thought of sailing, fond smile on his lips as he longed for the sea air, stinging mist, and high winds – truthfully one of his favorite things to do.

He was drawn from his reverie by a shuffling noise outside his tent; his hand instinctively clasped the pommel of his dagger, hidden under his pillow, but soon relaxed. The moon was full that night, and the shadow that danced on the flaps of his tent was most definitely feminine, and far too slight to be either Morrigan or Leliana. Within a few seconds, Catherine entered his tent without a word, turning herself on her knees back towards the ties, cinching them closed again, before crawling on her hands and knees over to his side, laying herself onto her back to slip her trousers off.

The subtle, silver light of the moon flattered her bare legs, he noticed as his eyes took in her half-naked form. Zevran agilely slipped out from the cover of his bedroll, resting himself on top, staring at her... he honestly had no idea what to do; this was so very different from what he expected, or wanted, really. Catherine turned onto her side and wriggled herself into the crook of his arm; it wasn't an intimate gesture for either of them, of course, it was a matter of comfort. Her soft breasts pressed against his chest through her shift as she brought her lips to his in a desperate, heated tangled. Teeth clicked together and sank into soft flesh, hands began to explore, and somehow they managed to keep quiet. It wasn't odd for him to be a silent lover, even though he preferred to be responsive and receive responses in return, he was an assassin and more, often than not, he was having sex with someone who was already 'madly in love' with someone else.

She broke off the kiss messily, dotting wet pecks across his jaw, to his earlobe. The arm unintentionally wrapped around her tightened its hold as she dragged her tongue up the length of his ear; heat seemed to course directly from her tongue to his loins, and Zevran's hand gripped onto her hip in an attempt to keep himself from moaning out. Her soft, plush lips wrapped around the very tip and suckled, nipping with just enough teeth to cause him to gasp – _Maker_ she knew her way around an elven body.

As lovely as her attentions were, Zevran was not one to be outdone. His unoccupied hand rested on the curve of her waist, sensually sliding across her ribs towards her breasts, only to be caught by the wrist, rather firmly.

The woman pulled herself away from her ministrations, not bothering to look at him. She shook her head as if she saw his questioning raise of the brow, acting like that motion answered anything and everything all at once; Zevran was sorely tempted to give her a spanking for being so thoroughly frustrating. Or, at least, that's what he would have suggested, had Catherine not brought his fingers to her swollen mouth. His eyes drifted shut as her deliciously warm tongue curled around his index finger, before taking it into her mouth. Zevran's steady breathing quickly became stifled panting as he thought of her talents being put to use a good deal South. After a time, she repeated her actions on his middle and ring finger as well, then guided his hand down to her abdomen before releasing control.

He understood the unspoken plea, though it only confused him more – he had never met a woman who only wanted the bare necessities of foreplay before. Before he could think too much on it, he skimmed his hand down, pulling the hem of her shift up over the swell of her hips with his other hand, as his wet fingers delved through her curls and began slowly caressing her. Catherine whimpered appreciatively, immediately replying with violent, desperate jerks of her hips, as if being touched as all she ever wanted. Quiet, pathetic simpering noises left her mouth as she clenched her eyes shut, pressing her forehead against his shoulder.

Whatever ailed her, she was not idle in the least. One hand crept down his chest, dusting him with feather-light touches that made his muscles clench. Her hips demanded he increase his pace as she unlaced his already quite loose pants and slid home, palm grinding expertly on his hardening length. Zevran slid two fingers into her moistening heat, smugly reveling in the barely audible moan that escaped her as his thumb circled the her little bud. Despite her odd behavior, it was obvious when she wrapped her hand completely around his ready flesh that she didn't savor being shown-up, either.

Far too quickly for his liking, Catherine seemed to notice she was more than prepared for finalizing their coupling. Roughly, she tugged his trousers down just far enough for his member to spring free, and in an instant, she was straddling him, wasting no time with teasing looks or subtle touches. Her hips pressed down slowly, allowing the very tip of him a taste of her, before forcing herself down in a quick, but measured stroke. Zevran's rolled back, the sudden sensation of intense pleasure and _warmth _was incredible. His hands instinctively sought out her thighs as she began to quickly pump herself up and down, twisting her hips in with such mastery that even _he_ was caught off guard. However, the moment his hands brushed against her bare skin, she seemed to snap.

Again, Catherine grasped him by the wrist, though this time she used one hand for each, slamming them to the ground and keeping them pinned by leaning in. Her hair covered their faces like an ebony curtain, but he could see her eyes – or rather, her eyelids. The mage's eyes were clenched shut so tightly, her entire forehead wrinkled, and even still, she had her head turned away from his face slightly. He knew that look, he had used it often enough with whores after Rinna had died. It was detachment.

Even as he thrust up with equal fervor, he felt a familiar bitter, acidic bile rising in his throat; Zevran could tell he could have been _anyone_ and she'd be on top of him, regardless. He had no idea why _that mattered_ but _it did_ and despite the fact he could have gotten out of her pathetic excuse for a grapple, he continued to lay there. With all the strength he could muster, he pounded into her ruthlessly, only barely holding back the animalistic growls that were begging to leap from his throat.

She didn't cry out in surprise, or even seem startled from his change; her only response was to meet his strokes with equally hate-laced thrusts, digging her sharp nails into his arms so hard, there was sure to be blood.

Sweat covered their bodies as the battle went on, her shift clung to the lines and curves of her enticing body, crinkling with her frenzied movements. They were both close, the building tension in his abdomen began to crack as he felt her walls close in on him. Catherine rammed herself down on his hips twice more, before her entire body shuddered with her orgasm. She made no noise, but rolled her hips in way of riding the aftershocks; three thrusts and one extremely powerful squeeze later, he found his release as well, erratically pressing up into her.

As they both caught their breath, his partner seemed to come out of her daze, looking at him with a dawning realization, pulling her hands back from his wrists as if she'd been burned. All things considered, she didn't seem particularly regretful, but neither did she seem satisfied. Her head bobbed, brow pinching together as she dismounted him hastily, grabbing her trousers. Being a short woman, she was able to stand in relative comfort as she clothed herself, still not speaking or even deigning to look at him.

For his part, Zevran did nothing but lay there, completely askew, mostly naked, and utterly baffled with a healthy mix of sticky in there as well. His throat was tight, but he could find no words, even if he felt he could speak with any dignity. She had been stressed, perhaps even scared, and used him for a distraction and for a release, likely the only way she knew how. That realization – while sympathetic – did nothing for the burning sensation between his ribs.

Catherine began untying the tent flaps methodically, oblivious to his thoughts. He shifted a bit and pulled up his trousers, not bothering with the mess; Zevran was _too tired_ to care, too angry to bother. As she unfastened the last knot, she turned to look him in the eye for the first time since she entered his tent.

"Thank you." was all she said, in a low, measured voice, before turning back and leaving, not even bothering to close the tent.

Zevran was at a loss. She used him for comfort, and while he found his release, certainly, he didn't feel as if he had gotten anything from the encounter. He had fully expected sex with Catherine to be wild, passionate, and _loud_. Perhaps he got one of those this night, but even then... why did it feel like she had _taken_ something from him?

His face scrunched in thought as her parting words finally registered. Zevran had been 'thanked' on occasion for his skills in bed, but... the was she spoke. It was so... genuine? He really wasn't sure what genuine _was_, except that, despite the fact Catherine had, indeed, used him, he didn't feel like she was _using _him.

He had no idea what that meant, but it was all his exhausted mind could think of.


End file.
